Leaving Durant
by jkwasher
Summary: Vic's reaction to Walt's attempted vendetta on Jacob Nighthorse. Speculation set after S3E10 "Ashes to Ashes." Vic's first-person reactions, and how she would cope with the crushing perception that Martha still held all of Walt's heart.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hi, this story "wrote itself in my head" after the S3E10 finale, when it seemed to me that Vic should be emotionally destroyed by Walt's willingness for vendetta, ignoring her completely in his focused mission to kill Jacob Nighthorse. In a sense, Walt was honoring Ruby's request to "hurt him" (whoever hurt Martha)—to the exclusion of Vic, Cady and Henry. Once S4 was announced, I didn't write it, but after hearing that Sugar's "If I Can't Change Your Mind" was being played in the TV writers' room, it just sort of brought it all back in my head. Look up the lyrics, if not the music, for sadness. This is a "what-if," NOT canon, so please take it as such. It is also first person Vic, which is not fan-fiction norm.**_

**Leaving Durant**

**Chapter 1**

**Betrayal**

I drove for what seemed like hours, passing out of the county, then the state. I drove north and north, to the land of horse beheadings and through an Indian reservation. _Fuck it! _My best and maybe only true friend in Durant had just revealed he had been prepared to murder the man who he believed had killed his wife. I had only left him at the behest of his daughter, who was of course the one to rightfully stay with him while he worked through it all.

The only problem with his plan had been, as opposed to his cautions to us deputies over the years about making sure all the pieces fit a puzzle before announcing it solved, he had still not finished that investigation into Martha's death. Instead, he had decided to short-cut that and just take Jacob out without evidence beyond a reasonable doubt. Vigilante, which made my skin crawl.

He also had not expected to come back, leaving Cady, Henry and me…alone and with no closure. Henry and Cady would have to figure out where they stood, but they had both known and loved him for decades. For now, I had to decide where _I_ stood in his life, in _my_ life. I had thought when he asked me to stay, he was asking for more, for _me_. It seemed I was very mistaken in that assumption, sooo…. _Fuck him_!

I kept driving. It felt like I might never stop.

The Barlow Connally Ranch shooting brought it all to the forefront. While most of Henry's friends in the Durant area celebrated at his Freed Henry party where I provided security detail, Walt had responded to the call, and somehow gotten there first. According to the EMTs, he had responded even before the 911 call came in.

By the time I got there, he had been standing near Branch, who was moaning, "I'm sorry," over and over, and that his dad had paid to murder Martha Longmire, but I was not sure Walt had really processed all that. He stood before us suddenly grey and broken, eyes unfocused almost glazed, suddenly aged and stooped in pain. He was no longer the tall, vibrant man so sure of and at ease with himself most of the time. Here, he was lost in his head somewhere, but not with us, and most certainly not with _me_.

I knew he was in shock. Should I slap him like in a soap opera?

"Walt! _Walt!_" I hissed, voiceless, my hands grasping the front of his shirt, shaking him. I always had better luck using whispers than shouts with him.

He did respond, look down, and I think he vaguely registered me, but the empty look in his eyes just made me want to cry. This man had been, at least for the moment, completely devastated.

He might recover at some point, but he also might well second-guess his gut instincts for the rest of his life. A part of me noticed the ambulances taking both Barlow and Branch to the hospital. Ferg was there, camera hanging from his neck, bending to put markers where the casings were. At that moment, I knew that this was his time to shine.

"Ferg! You're lead on this! Don't fuck it up!"

He looked up, a little alarmed. I jerked my head toward Walt and signaled with my eyes, and it finally dawned on him that Walt wasn't really there.

"Oh. Got it! I'm on it."

Which left me with Walt. I led him over to the Bronco, and he was for that one moment, as docile as a puppy. I had him lean against the hood and sit on the bumper.

"Did you understand Branch?" I said very slowly, as I would to a child.

His eyes, no longer vague as earlier, but intense cobalt flames, met mine for the first time that day.

"It wasn't Jacob? It was Barlow?" his voice was hoarse.

"Don't give Barlow too much credit. He and Jacob were thick as thieves in this, in fact, probably _both_ thieves, and in cahoots with Malachi and company. It bears investigation, Walt. Maybe state level. Feds? Conspiracy to commit murder across state lines? Money laundering across state lines? Isn't Malachi the launderer? We'll get 'em."

He shook his head slowly. He reminded me of a bull moose immediately after the shot, before the bullet does the fatal internal damage and finally takes him down. It was more like disbelief that his life had turned into such a fucking shitty morass.

My hands found his shoulders, this time in support, but he had gone away again.

He suddenly whispered, "Ruby said to hurt him."

"Hurt whom, Ruby said to hurt _whom_, Walt?" I kept my voice low, like I did with children, the mentally unstable, suspects, men like Walt…

"She said to hurt the man who hurt Martha."

My eyebrows went up in my own variety of disbelief. Ruby,_ our _Ruby said_ that? _Okay…" I was still whispering.

The eyes went vague again. He was scaring the _crap_ out of me. I'd never seen that, even when he'd been hurt, after days in the fucking cold on Ten Sleep, after shooting Chance. Something integral in his belief system had broken, or something already broken but bandaged to walking functionality had now been at least temporarily damaged beyond immediate repair.

"Stay here." I thought he might understand those words, while I went over to have a brief conference with Ferg.

"He's in shock. About Barlow, Martha, probably everything in the last few years. I'm going to take him home. I don't know what else to do with him, it's not a hospital thing, it's emotional not physical."

"Gee, I don't know, Vic. I kind of need you…"

"You'll do fine," I said, and patted his shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring way. I had no corresponding reassurance for my own situation. "If you have questions, _call_ either me or Ruby, we can both guide you through any issues. If you get overwhelmed and need another pair of hands, call me, and I'll ask Jim Wilkins for a loaner. He owes Walt more than one favor."

"It's so high profile…" he said, still unsure.

"Just do what you have learned to do. Do it well for Absaroka—and for Walt and Branch. If there are any holes, we can fill them in. I've got to get Walt out of here. He's not—fit for duty." I thought of the shows with captains on them, and the first officers relieving them of duty when they were not physically or mentally fit. Shit, this time, as Undersheriff, I was one of those Number Ones. "I'm going to take him in the Bronco, but there are plenty of gloves, forms and bags in my truck if you need them."

"Okay, okay," he said.

I went back to Walt, took his hand again. He seemed unsurprised at that. Another weird non-reaction, but this time I noticed his hand seemed hot and dry. I led him around to the passenger side of the Bullet. The fact that he still followed me without dissent _troubled_ me. I had thought I might have a fight on my hands, and unless I got him in a surprise wrist lock, I knew he could win anything on the physical side. Maybe it was good that he at least trusted me enough to follow—this time.

I peeled out, lights and sirens going. Let the hoi polloi think the Sheriff had another call to answer. I left them on a few minutes before shutting them down. He looked over in question but said nothing as I headed straight for the cabin.

He might not have anything to eat there, but at least I had a phone if we needed to order in. I wouldn't leave him until he righted, or if he did not, we could get him some help. Doc Bloomfield might have some ideas if he got worse.

My eyes went over to him frequently as we drove, but I also noticed a few distinctive things in the course of my observations. His jeans had dusty stuff on them. It looked like human ashes to me, but—shit, it _must_ be—_Martha's?_ His rifle was loaded, had the safety off. I was guessing his duty weapon had its safety off as well—I noticed as I led him to the Bronco that the strap had been released. I thought about asking him to correct those, but given his mental state, left well enough alone. We'd fix all that when we stopped. And he seemed…disheveled, mentally unprepared.

I made the turn to the cabin at a slower pace.

"Why are you bringing me home?" he asked. Good. Real words, ones that made sense.

"Pit stop. Give us a little time to process this latest disaster. I'll call the hospital for an update after we get you comfortable there."

He turned a little, his head tilted. "Why are we getting me comfortable there? Shouldn't we be headed to the hospital?" That was _so _Walt, ever mindful of his duty. Yes, we owed it to Branch, but _this_ wasn't the Walt he needed.

"I—," I tried to frame the reference, take it out of his court. "I need a little time to figure this out, Walt. We'll stay in contact and go to the hospital—when we're ready."

"Okay," he said, seemingly in relief. Decision made for him, it was at the moment out of his hands, and he could go back inside his head. Hopefully I could help him through and come back out of same head before he made any decisions like his earlier ones with the weaponry.

But who would help _me_?—if what I believed was true, was indeed truth. Whatever I did in the next 48 hours would be either the making—or the breaking—of Walt and me, as partners, as friends, as future lovers. Something was so incredibly wrong, here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Leaving Durant**

**Tuesday Night at the Cabin**

**Chapter 2**

It was newly dusk as we pulled up to the cabin, the sun just having disappeared behind the mountains leaving a faint golden glow, and a hint of chill in the air signaling a reminder that fall was not so far away.

I set the brake, went around to the passenger side and took Walt's hand, which was very warm against the chill. He was still surprisingly compliant, so I pulled him into the cabin behind me, and led him to the couch, where he sat without protest.

"Do you want to shower, maybe change clothes?" I asked, eyeing the whorls on his jeans which I strongly suspected were the remnants of ashes. I didn't want him wallowing, literally, in Martha any more than I could help it.

"It was Barlow."

"And probably a dozen other people tangled up in a web along with him. We'll get them, Walt, I promise, but you can't fucking go after them, yet, if you don't know who they are. We need more evidence to get warrants which will stick."

_And, _I thought, _you can't go after them with a gun, until you have the law on your side. You know that, you told me Lucian taught you that, but you have somehow forgotten…_

"Ruby told me to hurt him."

Back to that.

I rummaged through the pantry and pulled out a quilt, put it over him.

I wondered if he was in shock. His eyes were dull and he was shivering. My next stop was the fireplace to start a fire. It looked like it had been laid just that morning, which didn't jive with the scattered debris around the rest of his place. Maybe just habit, or, maybe whatever was bothering him had come over him quickly, maybe something here? He was acting like he was in shock, after being told his wife had been killed by a life-long rival. I am almost certain that would throw me, but…_before_?

Finally, I went to his fridge and stood in front of it and its freezer, scowling with my best 'Vic is Pissed' look. I don't know if he meant to come back, but there wasn't much in it besides two twelve-packs of Rainier. I pulled out my phone and ordered a couple of pizzas. He might not be hungry now, but could be later. If his friend Jamie delivered it, all the better. He could use a friendly face or two just about now. When I turned away from the fridge, I noticed his dusty pantry shelves, with the clear outline where the tea box had once sat. Walt had once joked to me that Martha kept him in line from there. I had no idea from _what_, or how, but he had said it. The box was missing. It kind of confirmed to me what must be on his jeans.

Next call: Henry, but his Freed Henry party which I was supposed to be doing security for was likely in full swing and something along country lines was twanging in the background.

"Henry, I need your help."

"Hello to you too, Vic, and speaking of help, where are you? I thought you were our security, here, tonight, but you just disappeared."

"You hear about the Connally shooting?"

"No. Who was shot?"

From his jovial speech, I wondered if he'd been drinking a little. I wouldn't blame him if he had.

"Barlow and Branch are both in the hospital, and Walt is here at the cabin, but…could you duck out of there for a while? Something's wrong with Walt, and we could sure use something to eat out here. His pantry's bare. I've called for pizza, but I'm thinking more along the lines of tomorrow, or maybe for a couple of days."

Henry seemed to be recalled to himself, no more celebrating for a while. "He used to marginally self-destruct right after Martha died, but he has been better for a while now. Wait—what is _wrong_ with Walt?"

"He doesn't look or sound right, saying some crazy things. And he feels warm to me."

His voice changed to concern. "Do you think this requires Doc Bloomfield?"

"Yes, maybe. I've never seen him like this."

"Then definitely. I will call him before I leave the Pony."

"Thank you, Henry," she said with genuine relief. "Oh, and could you tell Cady for me when she has a minute? She should know."

"She is dancing, but I will tell her in a few minutes."

"Thanks so much. I know Walt appreciates it, too.

When I turned, I could see Walt watching me, but I wasn't quite done on the phone. I called the Ferg.

"So, how's it going?"

"Vic! How is he?"

"Quiet. So far so good. How's it going? Give me your report."

"Ah, oh, okay. So, I finished up what I could before dark, got all the casings labeled, took photos, and put out stakes with crime tape. I'll go back in the morning to double-check I didn't miss anything."

"Okay. I will give it a once-over in the morning as well. That way we're both covered."

"I'm at the hospital now."

"Status on the patients?"

"Ah—Vic, Barlow's not so good, not sure of the prognosis, yet, but Branch looks like he may be released tonight. Do we arrest him?"

"Regarding Barlow, copy that, arrest _him_ on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder across state lines, and, no matter his condition, we need a guard on him. Call Ruby, have her get hold of Jim Wilkins after I get off with you and get a couple of loaner deputies from Cumberland to stay shifts with Barlow. Regarding Branch, _make no arrest_ at this time. Let's see where the investigation leads, first, but we _do_ need a statement from him ASAP."

"Okay, I'll try to get one tonight, if possible."

"If he's staying at the hospital, maybe buy him a cup of coffee and see if he'll open up. I don't think he shot his dad, or at least not intentionally, but we have to be thorough and not lead him in his story."

"Got it."

"And, Ferg?"

"Yes?"

"Tell him I'm so sorry, and Walt, too. That is, we're sorry he has to go through this."

"I will. Thanks, Vic."

"You're doing a great job. Go home, get some sleep after you snag Branch's statement, and then get back out to the crime scene in the morning. After that, it's you and me on 12-hour shifts until things settle down. We're counting on you."

"Okay, good night!"

I thought, _oh, no, it would not be that, but…_

Out of the corner of my eye, Walt lurched up off the couch, throwing aside the quilt. I shoved my phone in my pocket and stood there watching him.

He walked into the kitchen and brought out two beers. Well, that was progress into the normalcy department. He unscrewed the top on his, and held the other out to me. I took it, but laid it down on the table near me.

"What do you want to do after your beer?" I asked.

"Shower," he said. Well, that was also progress. "You called Henry?"

"Yep, for provisions."

"I heard you. And Ferg."

"Yep, you know, just keeping tabs. Still green but game, improving every day, and wants to make you and his dad so fucking proud."

"I know."

Okay, so we were back to the monosyballic Gary Cooper crap. I sighed.

"How are you doing in the head of yours?" I asked point-blank. He might as well endure an ambush from someone who had a dog in the fight because she also loved him."

"Barlow."

"And a whole _passel_ of others…he is in deep, it _had _to be a group, we just don't have it all together, yet, you know that as well as I do. We don't have the _law on our side_, yet."

"No…" He scowled, as though processing that was difficult.

"Fuck, Walt, you didn't have it when you prepared to go after Jacob." I paused. "That's what it was, right? You were ready to fucking _gun him down_? Was it because of the day you punched me?"

Despite the laid fire, with the pantry bare and the house messier than usual, strewn with the efforts to clean and load armaments as opposed to his typical meticulous methods around firearms, it looked as if it hadn't mattered to him because _he hadn't planned to come back_…

At least I had made some impact. The intense cobalt of his eyes was back, again, not that vagueness he had displayed earlier.

"So, did you intend to go get raped and shivved in Rawlins, shot outright by Malachi or his thugs, or arrested or shot by me when I responded to the Casino offices on the 911? Or were you planning to just shoot me first when I tried to arrest you, and to hell with the rest? I mean, my aim and game might be off because it's you, and because of Chance, right?"

And_, that_ got his attention. He seemed to cringe when I mentioned him shooting _me._ It was all I could do to not run over and pull him to me, to hold him and let him cry out whatever was in him, but I think he was just beginning to visualize what _might have_ happened. I held back, though.

"I…I hadn't thought that far ahead."

At his words, my anger rose and the hurt became phenomenally visceral. I suppressed my instincts to go in for the kill, but at least get in a couple more jabs before I retreated. Thrust, parry, thrust, parry…fencing wasn't my forte, but in this case, something was so _off…_

"Because I might be an easy target, right? Everyone has noticed you've been keeping me out of the field since Chance's. You had me hide in your office while you went out and confronted Ridges. You tried to minimize how much Ridges had hurt you, like I couldn't handle it. You think I've got PTSD or something and wouldn't shoot back?"

"No…just protect you, Vic. The hospital…you thought I'd been killed at Chance's."

"Yeah, the body bag. Then you got shot. Yeah, it got to me. It was shock, Walt. Give me a little credit."

And then I tried to hit Jacob, but hit you. I seem to hurt everyone around me when I try to do the right thing…Cady, Martha, Henry…"

I felt my voice go softer. He was in such pain. "Sometimes you can't protect Cady or me, and Henry shouldn't have kept those teeth, but you're certainly not responsible for Barlow, Jacob, or Malachi…"

"Sometimes R.J. makes more sense to me, now. I couldn't even keep Malachi behind bars."

_That _he thought of R.J. was chilling. R.J. had committed suicide partially because he couldn't keep his collars in prison. That Walt was likening himself to _him…_

"I don't know if R.J. had anybody there for him. You _do—_Cady, Henry, _me_."

"You…"

No, something was definitely wrong in that typically fine mind. He seemed confused, as in, not connecting with the reality that by taking Jacob down, he would be leaving everyone, _all _of us_,_ presumably forever.

And then the doorbell rang. Pizza guy, I thought, suppressing my frustration at the interruption. _To be continued._

I reached for the credit card in my pocket, and walked to the door. I flung open the door, only to see Cady, still dressed from the party, but pale and less together than I'd seen her since her hospitalization.

"Oh. Hi," I said, moving aside so Cady could enter. I was not very gracious. She had done well for Henry, but Branch was a basket case and she wasn't at the hospital with him.

"Henry said I needed to get over here. That Dad needed me. Ferg sent me with your truck." She handed me the keys.

"Maybe…" I tried to keep back the anger that I had just unleashed on Walt, and was pulsating through me. "Maybe we should all sit down together, and I'll try and explain."

A half hour later, my fears for Walt had not abated, but Cady got him to go take a shower after a quick visit to the bathroom herself, which I privately suspected had most likely been to remove any blades. I wondered if she had done that any other times, say just after Martha's death.

"You should get some sleep, Vic. You look done in. Henry and I can take it from here."

That was from Cady. Of course it was. If someone had called me and told me my dad had gone off his nut, I'd be headed to stay with him, too. I just wasn't sure if Cady knew who she was coming to see. That man she had looked up to was hiding somewhere inside his head, and hadn't come back out to play, yet.

"Or when Henry gets here, I may go to the hospital, sit with Branch."

Well, that was better. Maybe. Hopefully Henry and Doc B. could get Walt stabilized and not put Cady through that. Branch could use a friend…

But it wasn't that _doing me in _as Cady put it. I was not so much _done in_ as I was _devastated_. My best and maybe only true friend in Durant had been going to commit murder and had deliberately set us all aside so we couldn't in any way be fingered as accessories. He'd be labeled as a Lone Wolf shooter…and only a confession from someone who purported to be the conspirator had prevented him from gunning down the wrong man. Oh, likely Jacob was in on it _with_ Barlow, but it was evidently Barlow who paid Jacob and conceived and executed the plan to kill Martha.

The implications were staggering. By a hair's breadth had he been diverted from a vigilante act none of us anticipated or could have stopped without…well, probably without _killing_ him.

As I sort of dawdled before leaving, she said, "Henry should be here, soon, so I'll have reinforcements and a ride. He's bringing supplies."

I added, "And hopefully Doc Bloomfield. I don't think Walt's okay." I was thinking he might temporarily need head meds, or at the very least a sleeping pill.

After a few moments, Walt said from the couch, "Vic, at least I didn't add to the paperwork." To my mind, it was a roundabout instruction to _keep the station running_ while he wasn't there. Then he was off and gone again, vague and quiet, and I tilted my head pointedly and caught her eyes. Cady's lips clamped together, seeing that.

I finally left, very reluctantly, wondering where the hell Henry was, but another part of me thought he might still be picking up Doc Bloomfield, who didn't much like to drive at night, anymore. Jamie showed up just as I left. I took one of the pizzas with me in the truck and began driving north. At the moment, given the churning in my gut and mind, it was all I could manage.

The last few weeks began playing over in my head.

Almost two months ago, after holding me in his arms at the hospital, Walt had attempted Mr. Neutral Boss and instead came off as an asshole when I'd delivered Sean's ultimatum. Just a few weeks ago, Walt, stumbling through a short but earnest speech full of qualifiers, had told me he wanted me to stay. I knew how hard it was for him to say things to women. Our eyes had connected, and I was pretty sure his declaration was for more than me to stay as deputy. I had felt his eyes on me for a long time, and the looks had changed and intensified since our embrace at the hospital. He had let me clean his face at the Pony…something I was pretty sure he would only allow someone on his short list could do for him.

His unwillingness to have me in the field left me frustrated. I had demonstrated no PTSD or any similar symptoms as Branch had after his exposure the peyote-laced feather. I had not given him any reason not to trust me, but he had set Ferg to guard _me_ when he'd gone off to confront David Ridges. He had tried to laugh off his small wound after killing Ridges, and I knew instantly the performance had been for me. I had seen through his bravado—but I got it, why he did it, he remembered how shaken I had been after he was shot by Chance.

I mused over how he spent so many recent days closeted in his office, and the last couple of days, personal days, something he rarely did. It seemed to me from the residue on his jeans and the tea box missing in the kitchen, he might have either buried or scattered Martha's ashes. A part of me had fluttered, then, thinking maybe he was starting to move forward, but another part of me wondered if he thought he was putting his affairs and cases in order, on the possibility he might not return.

I also wondered at what point I had been dismissed from his thoughts. No, he hadn't added to the paperwork, but he had done far more than that, for with the events he had tried to set in motion, he had broken my heart.

I was almost to Billings when I evaluated my gas gauge, turned around and headed back toward Durant. I knew my duty lay there, and also what was left of my poor bruised and bloody heart. I had to figure out what was happening, and staying in my own head was as bad as when I told Walt not to stay in his, so I would have to go figure it out in the office. The damage was too extensive to understand, yet, but mentoring with Walt, I was becoming a fair detective and might have a shot at it—unless maybe I had inherited his blind spot along with his teaching, and could not detect what was right in front of me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Leaving Durant**

**Chapter 3**

**Denver**

Half my heart had been strewn in pieces strewn down the road leading away from Barlow Connally's ranch, from the moment I had been faced with the fact that Walt had not planned me to be in his future, but the other half still wore the Big Star in Durant. It…broke me. It was becoming clear that I couldn't work for him anymore, feeling sheared in half like that.

After I returned from my impulsive night drive, I inspected the crime scene for two things: to be sure there was nothing left of me to put back together, and that nothing had been missed by Ferg. As for the half of me which lay discarded on the road, it had somehow dissolved into the dust and been blown away by the wind. I felt hollow, empty without my certainty of him. As far I could tell on the other matter, Ferg had done an exemplary job at the scene, which left me free to drive back to the station and re-evaluate the whole sordid mess.

A couple of weeks before, Inspector Vogel had come up to Durant to personally thank Walt for his re-promotion and Fales' resignation. I privately thought Fales might be out to get the ASD, but Vogel didn't think so.

"He's with another department, another state and working hard to keep that. I say, let Nebraska have him, and he's hopefully out of our hair. I have people out there keeping tabs on him. If any of you decide you want a bigger challenge, we do have a couple of openings. I notice that ASD doesn't have any dedicated detectives."

He handed out his newly-inked business cards to us like candy. I knew he owed Walt a _huge_ favor, or a few of them, for getting his position back. There was something of a carrot nature in it for me, being offered _detective_, but given my hopes in Durant, I filed it for future reference in my _just in case_ file.

Now, only two weeks later, I pondered my choices, flipping the card through my fingers. When Vogel had visited, I had considered it a courtesy move only given the burgeoning possibility of a future with Walt, and the option of becoming sheriff when he retired in the middle of a term. Then last week happened. Because of what had gone down in the last week, I was seriously thinking about Vogel's offer.

It had been five days since the Barlow Connally ranch shooting. Barlow was still in the hospital, hovering, with Jim Wilkin's loaner deputies guarding him. Lucian came in or rolled calls over and and spelled Ruby on the weekend. Branch was sitting with his father and going to a therapist. Poor bastard.

I had been pulling 12 hour shifts relieving Ferg, pretty much alternating eating pot-pies and take-out from the Bee, and in all my spare time, grieving for lost friendship. I slept fitfully when not dealing with the deluge of paperwork created by the shootings. If something didn't break soon, I swore I would be joining Walt in that _Land of Vague_ he had apparently carved out in his head.

Walt, on the other hand, had _taken some time off_, but would reportedly be back on Monday_._ Ruby seemed to think that this was unusual among a handful of times he had done that in 25 years. She seemed troubled by it, as I'd never seen her troubled by his behavior before.

"He's never taken time off during an active case before," she had fretted. Well, Ruby knew him better than I did, that was for sure, but maybe he'd never plotted murder, before? Or maybe he was conflicted about not having done what Ruby asked?

I hadn't asked him those questions because Walt had not spoken to me personally since the night at his cabin, would not answer his phone and no one would tell me what was going on. Neither Henry nor Cady had returned my calls. Doc Bloomfield, of course, couldn't tell me anything due to HIPAA laws. I even came away empty-handed from a solitary lunch visit to the Red Pony; Henry had apparently taken some time off, too. I even drove out to the cabin, but Walt wasn't there, nor was he on the roster at Durant Memorial (I had kind of leaned on Admissions there using my badge to be sure.) They must have thought it was either hilarious or scary for the undersheriff to not know where the sheriff was hiding…

Since my early-morning return from Montana, I'd made the early crime scene visit, a brief fly-by to the hospital to make sure Jim Wilkins' deputies had settled in, and other than a few scattered domestic calls, most of my life had been paperwork.

With my only true friend in Durant unwilling to tell me the most important things, why, _why _and_ WHY,_ it just weighed on me that it was time to wrap up the investigation, make plans, and get out of Dodge, well, Durant. Literally. Something had irretrievably broken between us during that brief and very unsatisfying conversation at the cabin, and the empty feeling had not left me for almost a week. I couldn't live for long like that.

In the last two days, I had a spate of voicemails from an unidentifiable cell phone which I had not returned, like I needed a phone stalker to add to my Stalker-of-the-Week collection. Given that during my perusal of the phone records in Walt's absence, I had circled Gorski's number calling the station three times in the last two weeks, I thought I might have reason to be concerned. Gorski had once left over 30 voicemails for me in a 24-hour period. It was one reason I had hired Hector in that misadventure into shit. The messages were an unwelcome reminder of Gorski as a stalker in my past, and I was not going to play.

I was only interested in hearing from four people, and they knew where they could find me if I was needed or wanted. I had been pretty definitively been given my walking papers that evening at the cabin, and it was truth, I was not a relation or even in a relation-_ship_ with him, and so should expect no information on his condition or location. I knew if he were in a hospital, it wouldn't cooperate, either, with the HIPAA laws hobbling them as much as Bloomfield. Durant Memorial had just barely been willing to verify that he was _not_ there. I wondered if he were visiting his VA shrink friend or something—I know he had been going on certifiable that evening, and the guy had helped him before with PTSD issues way back when.

So Sunday afternoon I sat in my rented car (the Dodge truck, keys on Walt's desk, was parked outside the station) driving down to Denver, seven-plus lonely hours of country music by twang-voiced guys missing their dogs, trucks and loves. I did not look forward to the lonely Motel 6 and dinner I would be enduring in a couple of hours any more than the pot pies at the office. Earlier in the weekend, I had left Jim Wilkins a message requesting one more deputy to temporarily replace me to keep the office running until Walt could find my replacement. He sounded shocked and sad, and offered me a place there if I wanted it.

"Damn," Jim said. "Walt has always said you were the best deputy he'd ever had."

I noticed the tense of the words he used and I said I'd keep it in mind.

I contemplated that whenever Walt _did _return to his office Monday to find my letter, badge, and the keys to the Dodge there, he might finally get the message. My Glock, personal issue, lay safely locked in my rental's trunk.

When I got to Denver I checked in, too but restless to sit, took a hike and checked out a few of the sights. Downtown was confusing and full of one-way streets with numbers that existed in other parts of the city. Not a well thought-out plan. Rush hour literally stretched into hours and the whole city had a hazy miasma the locals called "brown cloud" which was pollution trapped by down-sloping winds. The mountains about 30 miles behind the city were beautiful, but everything else was too much chain stores and the emptiness of hundreds of rats crowded into a solitary cage for me. Five years ago, a mall would be a candy store of possibilities for me, now it was mostly distraction.

I missed the simplicity, the open spaces, damn it all, I missed Durant, because Durant was _him._ I missed the flutter of figuring out the logistics of a murder, of just walking with him, teasing him, meeting his eyes, planting my feet on his dash, his desk, reading him the fucking reports…challenging him with the notion of friendship, if not intimacy. His dry humor at odd moments. The eyes. The _eyes. Our _eyes, a connection I'd never had with anyone else in my whole life. Damn it, it was him, not Durant. I missed him _more_ than Durant. I also missed the rustic Pony and the front porch of his cabin, which was like a vacation every day to this Philly girl. Of course I couldn't tell anyone _any_ of that.

Vogel had made an appointment for me for an interview Tuesday morning, but he'd scheduled me for a tour of the department Monday afternoon.

On the phone, Vogel had challenged me at once on my reasons for leaving. I liked him a lot better for the asking. The thing was, I wanted _not_ to like Vogel, but I _did. _After all, he _had_ helped Walt figure out the David Ridges-feather connection, and Walt had gotten his job back for him. Fales had screwed the pooch by ignoring the evidence and going for a personal vendetta. That was the only thing Fales and Walt seemed to have in common, the personal vendetta thing, but their respective approaches to law enforcement were many worlds apart.

Vogel was much more along the lines of Walt in philosophy, thorough, honest, and persistent, and I admired that, but his words were not the professional ones I had expected.

"You are going to miss him."

I couldn't lie, even on the phone I have tells galore and am a terrible liar.

"I'm not sure who—"

"The sheriff. Walt. You worked for him over three years…"

"Three and a half. Yes. I like working for him, but I just went through a divorce and thought maybe a fresh start—"

"You are going miss the sheriff. You two were close. He talked about you."

Since Walt didn't talk much to _me, _I was justifiably surprised by that. "He—does—did?"

"Uh-huh. I thought you two might make a go of it at some point."

"_You_ thought that? Why? You don't even know me." I was trying to keep the 'f' word out of a professional pre-interview conversation, but it was difficult.

"Not sure why, just some things about the way he said you were the best deputy he'd ever had, mentioned you frequently, or maybe it was what he _didn't _say, maybe it was something about how he smiled when he said your name."

All that shook me a little, but then, the guy _was _a detective, after all. Walt might play his cards close to his vest, but he had tells, too. "I enjoyed working with him, but like I said, the reason I left is personal."

"Nothing to do with the incidents in Philadephia?"

I took a breath.

"No. I didn't tell Walt right away, because was pretty fresh and horrific to me at the time, but I did tell him, eventually. I sent you the full details."

"Gutsy."

"More like, crazy. They have long memories, in Philly. It's why I only head back there to visit family."

"Mmmm. Family, including Victor Moretti? You're from that Moretti family, right? I worked with him, once."

"You worked with Dad? I know you mean my dad, I doubt if you worked with my brother Victor."

Yes, your dad, on a drug case maybe 20 years ago. Amazing man. I'll bet he's still into opera?

At my affirmation to that factoid, he continued, "So, since you still seem sort of ambivalent to me, and to leave you an out should you change your mind, if you still want to join us after the interview and tour, would you consider it after probation for three months, to become full-time permanent at the end?"

So the interview there was a formality, this over the phone was the _real_ interview. I thought about it for about three seconds. Denver was an expensive place to live, but the salary for a detective was three times what I made in Durant, and had much better perks. If you were going to be in the emotionally dead department, the financially sound department might balance the tendency toward depression.

"Sure."

My house stuff was still in a Durant storage locker, but Sunday morning I cleaned my clothes and things out of the basement file room near the showers. Some of them joined their compadres in the storage locker, but a lot of them went into the rented car I took down to Denver, and more than a few things went into the trash. After all the high-profile shooting excitement earlier in the week, the office was completely empty as I cleared my stuff out, and I didn't see anyone before I left. I knew Ruby had rolled the 911 and dispatch calls to her house phone, or Lucian might even be on back-up this weekend, I hadn't checked and she had the freedom to schedule either. Lucian did like to keep his hand in the business, even from Snowcap Vista.

I had another mysterious voice mail I didn't listen to while I was packing up. I was already so out of there.

I drove down to Denver, got in late that night, and made the Motel 6 my temporary home with a weekly rate. It was more expensive than an apartment, but I was on probation, and something in me just resisted getting a place. Who knows, I might even go even go back to Philly someday, once the dust had settled a little longer.

I spent the night dozing, startling awake at the least noise, no better than the cot at the jail, except I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts and not on call or duty. It was not a testimonial to the comfort level of the Motel 6, or its isolation from city noises. After waking up for the third time, I stabbed the voicemail button in frustration to hear one of the mystery ones; maybe I could put my stalker to rest and start in Denver with a clean slate.

"Vic, call me back when you get this." _Walt's voice. Walt _was the Unidentified Caller_?_ _Walt_ had a cell phone? He obviously didn't know how to personalize it, but really…?

I quickly listened to the compilation of voicemails.

"I'm still in Billings, but will be back in a couple of days and can explain."

He was in _Billings_?

Later one while I was packing, "Vic, please call me back. Please don't give up on me yet."

Last one, yesterday afternoon. He must have come back to the office just after I left. It was just one more example of our impeccable timing. "I just found your letter. I guess I know why you haven't been calling me back."

By this time I was in tears, and sat down with my back to the door to listen to them all again. _Why_ had he been in Billings, was it a mental health issue? Why wouldn't Henry or Cady answer my calls?

A soft knock reverberated through the door at my back. I jumped up, swiped at my face, and chained as it was, opened the door cautiously. It was the object of my tears _and_ my fears, the much too dear, familiar face from Absaroka County, but he looked grim and grey and all _wrong._ Henry was standing off to the side, looking equally as grim.

I held back, just, from throwing myself at him. I didn't know what I could do, but I wanted to make it right.

"Walt?" I asked in disbelief, as I pulled off the chains. He was leaning against the door jamb, looked gaunt and moved slowly, like he was sick, or maybe he'd just driven all the way down in an all-nighter. "Why are you here?"

Something else was off, too. He was wearing his smooth leather jacket, no hat, and _shoes? _Like suede tie-shoes or something. Maybe Doc Martens? It instantly struck me that he wasn't on home turf, had no jurisdiction, and probably didn't have his duty piece, either. He certainly wasn't wearing his star. He looked like—a fish out of water. _His_ water. He almost looked—for him—_undercover_.

He still hadn't moved from holding up the door, but he jerked his head. "I have to testify down here today in the after-the-fact inquiry into David Ridges' death. After I found your letter, I called Vogel to see if he knew anything about your plans. Ruby said you'd had some Denver calls last week…he said…you were interviewing _here_, tomorrow."

"That's true…but, why are you _here_?" I gestured around the shabby room.

"_Why_, Vic? A letter of resignation without explanation, when you wouldn't give me me one after Sean's ultimatum? You won't talk to me or return my calls?" He fished in the smaller pockets of this lighter jacket. "I even got _this_." He held up a very basic cell phone. "I…missed you."

"Well."

"Just disappearing in the night and not saying goodbye to anyone?"

"Well."

"Running, from me like you did from Philly?"

Now he was pissing me off.

"_Well_."

"I…thought maybe you'd come up to Billings and hold my hand or something, like you did after Tensleep."

After that extraordinary statement from Mr. Man of No Words, I was the one struck speechless. Behind him, Henry's brows were raised at that one, so it wasn't just me.

"I thought maybe we could go to breakfast." His head went down, and I could tell he was about out of ammo, ready to turn on his heel and leave, maybe for a more horizontal, therapeutic venue. He _didn't_ look good, as in, he looked very ill indeed.

I was falling, trying to find my footing. Instead, all I said in a small voice was, "Okay."

His head came up.

"I think there's a place at the corner, but I have to get dressed."

"Okay, then." He sounded like a man on death row given a temporary reprieve. He _looked_ like a man on death row. Not sure if he was prepared for my side of the story, though.

"Henry, did you drive him down?"

"I did. I wanted to call you, but he did not want me to, Vic. He made Cady and me promise. He knew he needed to talk to you alone."

I closed my eyes. "Give me five minutes to dress."


	4. Chapter 4

**Leaving Durant**

**Chapter 4**

**Denver, Part II**

_**Okay, so I've wracked my fertile (you know, where there's a pony, there's…) brain trying to figure out a plausible reason for Walt to go rogue S3E10 . This is only one idea of many out there, and I am entrusting the show writers to make a plausible and acceptable (to the fandom) interpretation of what could drive a man whose oath and life's work is to enforce the law to make such a quantum shift to vigilante justice. I can't imagine anyone in their "right mind" choosing that path, so I struggle with what 'right mind' is, for the context of this story. A reviewer said she's disappointed with Vic, but I had to have a vehicle to get her out of Durant—fast. Hopefully the rest of the story will make up for it.**_

_**This story has evolved…well, hopefully you'll see in future chapters. I loved the S3 finale Tom &amp; Huck corpse-filching scenes, aided by Omar and the hapless Colorado State Patrol Troopers (hey, those cops are just down the road from me!). Walt and Henry's misadventures as kids must have given the adults white hair.**__**Add Vic to the mix…**_

_**I'm putting this up a little later than I thought, but hopefully it makes more sense, now. I'm sure there are still typos and loose ends, but I can make changes in it if you all see huge gaping craters…**_

Walt and Henry obligingly sat in the ubiquitous motel room conversation chairs while I ducked into the bathroom and threw on the clothes I planned to wear for the tour with Vogel later that afternoon. While I was trying to comb my hair, my phone buzzed. I picked it up to see Henry _texting_ me from the next room.

_Did not know Walt had phone. Bloomfield: PTSD – Ridges? Gilbert? aggravated by bruised rib/lung turned to pneumonia after Ridges fight._

Guilt upon guilt spiraled upon me. Those things made sense. I _knew_ Walt hadn't been sleeping, staying up days at a time, at least since he had punched me. Even the punch might have either been from or sent him into PTSD, and the Ridges ambush had been earlier that same morning. I hadn't seen Walt much since we had retrieved David Ridges' body from the battlefield. He had looked stressed, harried, and unsettled the brief times we had passed at the office after that. I knew he'd been keeping me out of the field since Chance's, so we hadn't been able to talk, or process anything. I was pretty sure he thought he was protecting me, especially after he had punched me, but I was now pretty sure at what cost—his very sanity.

I had also known he wasn't well the day of the Connally shooting, but he was so damn driven to make things right, and so physically tough, that I knew it would take a combination plate of problems to fell him. The worst, most personal thing was that he evidently _had_ fallen, and I hadn't been there to catch my friend as he fell, and stay with him until he pulled through. Instead, I had caved, bolted, and then had not done my damnedest to find him, but accepted the verdict and the censure of other people without a word from him. _I should have stayed._

I emerged from the bathroom and thought I caught a flicker of appreciation in Walt's eyes. He didn't see me in dress slacks very often, maybe much less than a dress. These were gray, conservative, with a simple white blouse. Nothing to entice a man, they were instead simple professional interview clothes for a city job. _To take me away from Durant…_

I think his eyes understood the significance of the clothes, as appreciation turned stricken. I thought of the additional evidence of the voicemails and thought with some warmth, _he did miss me._

I am sure my face was white and I wasn't cussing, hell, I was uncharacteristically _quiet_ as the three of us walked together down the block to the restaurant. To my amazement, Walt tentatively enveloped my hand in his big square one. I almost yanked it back, didn't think it was a good idea, but the look on his face melted me.

"I missed you," was all he said, but along with his eyes, and putting my thoughts to words, it was more than enough, really. I'd forgotten, working again in a city how really big and genuine he was stacked against the city suits. His hand was reassuring, big and calloused from chopping wood and wielding a shovel at the barn, not from playing his game system every night.

It did make a weird kind of sense. Walt had asked me to stay, and here he was not Sheriff and so did not have to observe the proprieties of both boss and elected official.

Henry did not comment on that action, but I had always thought Henry was aware of a lot more than he let on to us.

"Last night, I really wished this place was the Bee." I tried to say something. At least I could be honest about that through the coils of guilt plaguing me every time I sneaked a look at him.

The three of us sat in a booth near the front window. I would have preferred one much further back, or near the kitchen, like the one we frequented at the Bee. Although most of our meals at the Bee included shop talk, I had never much liked the idea of airing my business for the entire community. Today, Walt seemed especially edgy about where we were sitting. I wondered if it was because of the personal nature of our business, or something else.

We ordered. Coffees and ice waters appeared at the table. I doctored my coffee with plenty of milk and sugar to Walt's gentle smile. It was a joke between us that never grew old. Henry refrained from comment on our beverage rapport. That, and the fact that we were touching shoulder to hip. _Dorothy, we're not in Durant, anymore._

The three of us began to make circuitous conversations not touching on the real reasons why we were politely sitting in a restaurant in Denver. Our orders finally came.

Henry ate like a stevedore. Walt began to toy with his food, while I played with mine. It was as though the two of us were trying to bury the words that needed to be said in our food, but I was watching Walt in sneaking glances the entire time. I caught him watching me, too. He did not look like he should be in a strange city, much less at a restaurant, much less upright.

I noticed him scanning the street periodically, even as I studied his face, as though he was watching for something. It was curious behavior for him. He typically did not do that in our daily business in Durant, and after all, I had daily watched this man for over three years. _But he was not here as sheriff…_

I finally got up my courage as Henry finished. "Henry? Could you…give us a few minutes?"

Henry grunted an affirmative. "I will make a visit to the Cheyenne Warrior's room and check my email."

I knew I needed to supply Walt with an explanation. I took a deep breath: now or never, but before explanation, it just exploded out. "So _why_ didn't Cady or Henry answer or return my calls? I just wanted to find out what happened, if you were okay…"

He exhaled, pressed his lips together. "I told them I had to talk to you in person. I don't think they could explain what happened." He exhaled again and looked at me. His eyes were agony. "Why did you leave me?"

Not, _why did you quit_, not _why did you leave Durant_, but the more personal, _me…_

"So," I asked, in the whispery voice which was my anger and nerves at a rolling boil, but sometimes seemed to reach him better than shouting, "What _did_ happen?"

"Got sick. Why did you leave me?"

My heart sank, and already badly broken, spalled off into smaller pieces. I _had_ left him when he was sick. But he had asked me a question…I took a deep breath before answering. My phone buzzed with a text and saved me. It was…_Henry, again?_

_See if you can get him to take his medications. He may do it for you. I have not had much luck._

"You got meds?" I asked instead.

"After you answer."

I paused, my lips twisting. "Can you imagine how it felt to find out that you went off on a vendetta for someone deceased, thoroughly rejecting the living—Cady, Henry, _me_? I left Durant because I couldn't work for a man who asked me to stay, but had no place in his heart for me. That was the most humiliating thing of all, finding out that fucking Lizzie was right, after all…that it was still filled by only Martha...that you had to make it right for Martha…to the exclusion of the rest of us who care about you." I bit my lip as I trailed off, nothing left in me to lay out. I felt like I had opened a wound to drain it, and it was all exposed, now. Did I sound bitter, or even _catty_? Jealous of the dead, that was pretty bad.

The pain I saw in his eyes showed that just now, maybe, he was beginning to get a sense of how that might have felt. It was obvious he was struggling. Walt might always have to fight for that, trying find the right words with a woman. As partners, as friends, he could apparently function in some sort of comfort zone. I would always have him comfortable with me, even if it was only to stay as friends, as partners, and not more. It was the best part of being together the last few years.

"You have a place…inside me. I held you at the hospital…I asked you to stay. I made peace with Martha and scattered her ashes. I decided to change my answering machine. I want to look forward."

"You neglect to mention that _you went out, intent to kill Jacob Nighthorse_. Killing Jacob would trump all those other things, because you would leave _all _of us who care for you, _forever_. _That_ was for Martha, not any of the rest of us."

"I…"

"And after all that, Martha is still gone, and now," I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them, holding his, "I'm down here." But as I said it, all brutal and fierce, with part of me probably trying to punish myself for leaving him as well as punishing him for Jacob, I knew that was not exactly true.

Durant still had its star pinned tight on me. Even a few months back, I would never have believed it, but I couldn't reveal the scope of that to anyone. I was too bruised and battered inside now to have coherent opinions on the matter. I stared into my cooling coffee, my thoughts wafting away with the steam into the void, empty and sad.

"I was sick, and Doc Bloomfield said it was likely reaction to the fight with Ridges, or maybe from shooting Chance, I don't know, they weren't too far apart. And pneumonia."

My head came up, he was trying to tell me himself what he didn't want Henry to pass along, and here I was living in my head, doing exactly what I always gave him a hard time for indulging in for the last three years.

"Yes..." I was thinking the PTSD might have started after Chance's…he had been no less shaken than I at the hospital. We were sort of mutually holding each other there, the more I thought about it.

Henry suddenly slid back into the booth, far sooner than I expected, and helped him out. "_Double_ pneumonia. He is still on antibiotics, steroids, and a pretty stout cough syrup. He was out of his head for a couple of days, Vic."

I thought immediately how Walt had refused Ferg's backup and engaged Ridges, who had killed at least two people and apparently had nothing to lose. Walt likely still had issues after dueling Chance Gilbert, but he had wrapped me in bubble wrap with Ferg guarding me to try and keep _me_ safe, and I had done..._nothing._ I thought how he had minimized the incident and the injury to his ear when he returned, had not even mentioned any rib injuries. I had been all judging and silent that day. Instead, I should have embraced and enveloped him as he had me at the hospital, talked it over, _listened_, as a good friend would have. I might have noticed his ribs and made him get checked out. I was just mad he had kept me back, kept Ferg and me from helping him. _Guilt, guilt, guilt._

Then another thought intruded: That was just Walt, trying to protect those he had taken an oath to protect, or those he cared about, and I had seen it all before at work, and then with Cady, with Henry. _And me…_

"Bloomfield gave him antibiotics and Cady and I took turns. Because he wasn't lucid, Doc Bloomfield recommended sending him to Billings, to keep him away from Barlow until he had improved. Omar flew him up last week. Walt is _still_ supposed to be in Billings."

The irony in Henry's voice was not lost to me. Durant Memorial had a phrase for extremely ill patients checking themselves out, as _pulling a Longmire_, because all attempts to keep Walt hospitalized had been chronically notorious failures. A notion had flitted by me when he was last in Billings in the hospital, while I was with him for a day there after his assault on Cloud Peak up above Tensleep.

Then, I was married and had to return to keep the station running while Henry relieved me. This time, I would have liked to have tried to modify the _pulling a Longmire_, since I had never personally tried keeping him in bed. Maybe it was hubris, but I thought I might have some marginal success that a hospital might not. In opposition to the seriousness of that moment, I grinned inwardly. I could always cuff him to the bed…

I also took note of Henry's phrasing that Walt was supposed to be in bed until completely lucid. The acronym PTSD…akin to Lucian's _Bullet Fever_…was also out there. Was Walt not completely lucid, now? Had he possessed it, or did he _still have, _Bullet Fever?

But back to the moment—I stared at Walt in guilt. He hadn't looked _that_ bad in Durant, but I _had _relieved him of duty without even a token protest from him. I'd known he wasn't right even before that. I had just been mad about the arsenal in the Bronco, knew what he had been going to attempt, and left.

He had been displaying off-and-on symptoms later that evening, and I would not have called him completely lucid. And the phrase, _to keep him away from Barlow_, might also apply to_ keep him away from Jacob_…

"I didn't know." But at some level of course I had. I had thought it had been a _mental break_, although not PTSD, and not physical like an infection. Good thing I wasn't a doctor, I'd be plagued with lawsuits. I would keep away from that line of work as my day job, as the guilt just kept coming.

"Henry said he left you a couple of messages. When I finally remembered most of what had happened, I got the phone from a girl at the hospital and left a bunch of messages. I hoped you'd come to Billings."

"Henry's _message_ said you would be back on Monday." I held up my phone, showing all the messages. "Walt, I haven't listened to nameless or burner phone messages, since Gorski sent me like, 30 in _one day_. It's my first line of defense—between Gorski and Branch, I seem to have become a stalker magnet since the IA thing in Philly."

To Henry I said, "You should have called me again, or put Walt on."

"He made us promise not to, Vic. I did not know he had the phone until this morning, or I would have insisted on setting it up for him. I know he did not mean to shut you out. The fact that he _got _a phone speaks volumes."

Actually, the phone thing _did_ speak loud and clear. I sniffed, about this far from losing it… "After learning you went after Jacob, Cady wanted me gone...no one would tell me anything, and I didn't hear from you…from _any_ of you, I guess I played defense and just tuned out…" my voice thinned. "I was so… _far _out_, _I thought…I thought…Shit. Shit. _Shit._"

He laid a big hand on my shoulder. "It's not too late. What if…" Walt was speaking again. The man of few words was trying, I gave him that much.

I lifted my brows in question. My food was getting cold in front of me. I guessed a box would go home for dinner that evening. I absently signaled for the check, which was quickly laid in front of me. I asked for a box. I didn't mind paying, but he was still talking…

"…you came back, moved in with me. You don't have to work for me anymore, just stay with me. Maybe you could work for Henry if you don't want to work for me, anymore. Or do security somewhere and we'll find you a place if you want to live somewhere else. There will undoubtedly be another sheriff someday you could work for, or you could just run for sheriff yourself."

I looked at Henry, stricken. He looked as shocked as I, but quickly recovered. He acted as though he was an interpreter. "Vic, he said slowly, trying to catch my eye, "I believe he is saying he _still _misses you."

I couldn't say anything. Walt at full height in his hat and loose jacket broadening him as he towered over a suspect was menacing, but this earnest and intense humility from him—and _words—_ was downright terrifying. I couldn't reply to that more frightening Walt-stream-of-consciousness, _any _of it. I wanted to say, "Fuck _that!" _but I knew the sacrifices he had made to even _offer_ anything like that, and I could only _stare_.

All of that spew went against his moral codes, and he would still not have me for what made us work, every day on the calls. It was a noble set of offers despite the unlikely nature of them working out in any conceivable way, and I could not do it—to either of us. I would be discontent being a house-girlfriend? I had no idea what to call it, and he would be miserable because I would make him miserable. The whole notion was _wrong._ Or maybe he was slipping back into the pneumonia-fueled delusions…the whole idea was insupportable, but he was still speaking…

"Or…would you consider marrying me? I'd resign, if you just want to run for Sheriff."

"Walt, wait—" This was going from the realm of absurd, into the out-there La-La Walt in Fairyland, _unbelievable_...

Even Henry looked wary and disbelieving at _that_ one. "Walt—" he tried, but Walt, like a lumbering freight train as the words poured out, was difficult to stop once you got him going.

"We could drive back up and do that at the clerk's office tomorrow."

"He is saying he _really_ misses you." Henry was scrambling, now, and apparently having as much trouble as I with the discussion.

"Walt!" I almost said the _fuck off_ but I finally reined it in and did a slightly more respectful thing. Holding one of his hands, I closed my eyes and huffed out a "_No!_" but laid my other hand on his forehead to soften the blow. That had to be the problem, I was pretty sure he still wasn't in that completely lucid department, yet. My hand fell away, scorched.

"You're burning up. Henry? Henry, he's burning up!" I hoped that would put an end to the conversation, for my concern was genuine.

"Your meds, Walt, they are in your pocket. I do not remember whether you took them while we were driving down. You are probably long overdue."

Another wave of guilt reminded me about Henry's text.

Walt began to fumble in his jacket pockets and pulled out two prescription bottles.

Henry said, "Doc Bloomfield gave them to me in case the hospital could not contain him, but did not tell Walt. He knew I would follow the sheriff around with the meds whenever he got to escaping, but hoped he could entice him to stay there a few more days."

Walt unscrewed the top of the larger bottle and poured two into his hand. His hand dwarfed what looked like horse pills.

I spun the bottle so I could read the instructions. "You should be taking them regularly, after meals, and also probably be taking fever meds, Sheriff." I dug for the bottle of tylenol in my purse, and held them up in question to the closest thing in the booth we had to a medicine man.

Henry nodded, adding, "And drink all the water."

"Do as the Indian says," I said in a husky voice that drew a brief smile from Walt, and I threw a thank-you look to Henry, who shrugged.

Walt washed down the horse pills and two extra-strength Tylenol, and finished off his water.

I wanted to say to Walt, This is a_ll wrong. What we were headed for seemed right until you fucking went off the rails. You and Branch, you both need to learn you can't take back all your baggage in one sentence or apology. Branch is in therapy to try to undo his, but I suspect you would rather die than try that. Just so you know, it doesn't work this way_, but I didn't say it. It wouldn't be fair. I was worried that if he had relapsed, he was worse off now than last week.

He looked up, his eyes feverish. He had gotten past the pity-party. He was now out on the proverbial limb, the pity-wagon. Last-ditch, one more try…

"I…could move here. To be with you."

Rocked, _rocked_, the world exploded and settled back a little on a shaky stone foundation.

"You _what_?" Now I was really afraid. He had to be sick beyond anything I had imagined.

At that, Henry's interpreter qualities having absolutely sputtered and failed, was also speechless.

"Vogel will take me on, if I want. He gave me his card, too."

He had passed the pity-wagon and moved on to the Extreme Relationship Specialty Division, championship medal event. The last thing I wanted was Walt to go for the medal. It wasn't time, for either of us to participate in that event. I finally passed the anger and the pain and settled into the compassion portion of the afternoon. I took one big hand between both of mine.

"_No_. _Again_. Consider it one of my _Omar _No-s, and you know how final they are. I appreciate the offers, but right now, we need to help you concentrate on recovering and keeping the department rolling_._ There's time for sorting any _us_ things later."

"Vic—"

"I'll do whatever I can to help you until things straighten out." Did I just agree to return to Durant? Well, not really, and not permanently.

"Vic—"

"Now the other bottle," I directed him. Those pills turned out to be the brief course of steroids. I knew those sometimes caused sleep deprivation. Great, just what he needed for recovery, _more _extended periods without sleep.

The box mercifully arrived as he washed one of the small white pills down with water. I dumped my breakfast into the box, scooted out of the booth, snatched both box and check and went up front to pay.

I felt him moving behind me, heard Henry behind him. Walt laid cash on the counter before I could get my wallet out, took my elbow, and we were on the street, me carrying my box. He had not brought his. He had not eaten much, and he did not look well. Henry walked on my other side, and with two large men around me I felt like I was beneficiary of a security detail. The notion clicked into place, _a_ _security detail_, and it made me twitchy.

About a block along, Henry made a noise that sounded like _ten_. Walt leaned over and whispered into my ear. "Smile. Laugh and say something, but don't look 10 o'clock. Henry and I both just saw Fales."

_Fales_? Vogel had assured me he was out-of-state. I had some doubt, but dread made me shiver. If Fales were _here, _he must be stalking us. As far as I knew, we were unarmed, without jurisdiction and at the moment, without backup on a quiet Denver street. I wondered briefly if Walt was maybe still hallucinating in the grips of the fever, but then I thought, _Henry saw him and alerted Walt, _and complied instantly. We'd hadn't worked together over three years for nothing, I knew beyond a doubt Walt had something pretty close to an eidetic memory for faces, and if _Henry_ had seen him, too… Why was Fales not in Nebraska, more pertinently, why would he be anywhere near _us_?

"Don't you look handsome this morning." I tilted my head and kissed his gaunt and stubbled cheek, touching his arm as we walked along, as though we were openly fraternizing. His blush probably helped sell it. He leaned into my arm, and I suddenly realized it was no act, he was placing actual weight on me. I thought, _not a blush, _undoubtedly it was the fever. I ran my newly bold palm over his forehead. Still warm, it was moist, but not as bad, thank God. _How _had I missed that in all the…?

Of course I could make excuses given the volatile statements from Barlow and the nature and confusion of the crime scene. After a battle, defending friendly fire, the government would call it the _fog of war. _In my case, I had been beyond angry at Walt, feeling betrayed and lost, and not really connecting with him as I typically did.

_No excuses, Victoria. You fucked up._

He steered me to a nearby truck. Oh, okay, I finally recognized it as Omar's huge black monster in a city parking space. _But—_I thought uneasily—w_hy bring Omar's truck for testimony in a police matter?_ This was looking more than ever like one of their Tom and Huck misadventures. I had laughed for a long time after they had regaled us with the Miller Beck con-man exhumation story.

I looked at him questioningly and got the answer without words. It was like we were on the same page for the moment. He wasn't just here for testimony…he was somehow undercover, _tracking_. Henry, the best tracker, was _here_ with him_. _But tracking _whom_?

_Fales._

It had to be. Somehow he already had known Fales was here. Vogel's people? Or…did Walt have _people_?

Either way, he had put his health at risk to drive all this way, when the answer thudded in front of me... _Shit_. He was protecting me again. Still. More bubble wrap around me, but this time, because he still wasn't one hundred percent, he had enlisted Henry's help. I fervently wished for my Glock, but I didn't want to linger here and become a sitting target.

"I'll call Vogel." It was the least I could do, if the three of us were being singled out for attention by his former boss.

"Do that." He thumbed a remote and opened the door of the truck for me (apparently he _did_ lock Omar's truck while in Denver) and I jumped up and slid into the middle. Henry jumped in on the passenger side, and Walt more slowly slid into the driver's seat. He was definitely not firing on all cylinders.

"I keep forgetting I don't need to open the doors if the thing's in my pocket," said Walt ruefully. He sounded more normal than he had earlier.

"Modern technology, Walt. _You_ are the key."

Henry was often profound, but that could be taken more than one way.

I was autodialing Vogel, but I asked Walt, "Where are we going? Should you even be _driving?_"

"Wherever Vogel tells us. His guys can pack you up, return your car and bring your stuff to us. I'm just driving around here in town, because Henry drove all night from Durant. Well, from Billings, really. We stopped in Durant. We'll head back this afternoon. We may have to stop overnight, because, I don't know if any of us can make it back before a nap."

Instead of connecting the autodial, I stopped the phone. "Walt—wait, I _left_ Durant._"_

His nostrils flared a moment, but he was watching traffic, staring ahead. His jaw clenched. "After this is over, if that's what you really want, okay. I know no one can ever make you do what you don't want to do, Vic." At least he sounded better, for the moment. Maybe the fever had spiked and was now receding.

His voice sounded a little thick, though, and I hoped I hadn't sent him back into his head. When I glanced over to Henry, it looked like he was trying to ignore us, on alert, scanning the streets for anything suspicious.

I led with the obvious. "Fales spent almost two years putting together his case which ultimately rested on Henry. He's not exactly the impulsive type."

I autodialed Vogel again, and this time, it started to ring.

"He was trying to make his mark in Vogel's department. He had to bring in a big one."

"Little did he know a rich white guy would be _the big one_," I said, my lips twisting. "_Not_ the working-man Indian. He could have worked his magic on Barlow and had his case towards closing the injustice score in one felled swoop."

Henry gave a grimace which might have been a grin. "There is that," he said.

Vogel finally picked up. "What?" He sounded harried, like he was surrounded by children, and a woman spoke in the background. I thought, what I wouldn't give for a normal morning in a two-parent household, getting a couple of kids ready for school. There had been distant daydreams in which I wished Walt and I might someday have a family…

More noise in the background. My rosy opinion of the children dimmed slightly. I remembered the jumbled rackety confusion which surrounded my brothers. It explained much, and it sort of explained _me, _so I went ahead and reported.

"My guys haven't said anything," Vogel said after I had briefed him on the situation. He sounded unconvinced.

"Both Walt and his friend Henry saw him. They seemed to know he was around before they got to Denver. Tipped off, maybe."

"Stand by, just drive around until I call you back."

"Copy that."

So we drove, but I made Walt lie down in back, moved into the driver's seat and drove randomly for a couple of hours. One of the times I drove past I-25 signs, he was sitting up again in back, and Walt's desire to leave Denver and be headed north was palpable. Truthfully, I felt the same tug, but I'm not sure it was for the same reasons. I still thought Walt shouldn't be driving any more, and stay lying down. He was sweating a little, and maybe that was good. I drove along without comment. Henry dozed.

Vogel eventually called back about an hour later. I pulled into a parking lot and put the phone on speaker.

"I've verified that Fales left Omaha Friday night. My contacts didn't do their check until this morning."

"Okay…"

"We don't know if he's planning anything, but if he's tracking you, we should suspect that. He did have some sniper training as a young man. So for the moment, it's prudent to at least postpone the tour, the interview, and Walt's testimony. You and the sheriff may be targets."

"I'm not sure I'm a target," I said, but Walt and Henry might fucking be."

"Who is Henry?"

"Henry Standing Bear, the guy Fales blamed for Miller Beck's death."

"Yes, then, Standing Bear, too. "Is there a safe place the three of you can go?"

Over my head, Tom and Huck, er, Walt and Henry exchanged glances. "Yes," they both said in unison, and I gave up with a sigh of resignation.

"They say _yes_."

"I heard them. Then go to your safe place, and we will pursue Fales here from Denver. If we need to contact you, we will leave messages."

"Don't use this number." I gave them Walt's burner number. "We'll call out if there's any news."

"Anything else you need?"

"Could one of your guys get my stuff which is still in my rental car and motel, and pay the motel? Maybe meet us somewhere?"

"Sure. Just give me the information and where you want it."

I did, asking Walt where for them to meet us. He gave me some cross-streets and I passed them on before switching the phone off. Without my stuff, I felt helpless. Even my Glock was in the rental car. Then I had a precautionary idea.

"Henry, you and I should turn off our GPS, _and_ our phones. And Omar's GPS on the dash. I should leave mine on a little longer, until we rendezvous with Vogel's guys."

"The GPS I understand, but…"

"Calls could be triangulated, even with GPS off," finished Walt, a rumble from the back seat. He hung his arms over the center of the seat. It was good to be at least a _little _in sync again with him.

"Meaning, Walt's burner phone will be our only phone. How many minutes do you have on that, Walt?"

"Minutes?" he asked. "Uh…."

"Give it to me," Henry said. "I can figure it out." He pursed his lips, "although we may not have service on this phone's network where we are going."

I looked over to him as Walt handed Henry the phone without comment. "So, where are we going?"

"The Rez," they said in unison.

The Rez. As close to Durant as you could get.

I exhaled and my lips bunched in anger at the both of them. "I hope you are both happy. My job offer is toast, and if we don't connect with Vogel's guy, I won't have my sidearm or even a fucking toothbrush on the _Rez_. And _how_ did you even know Fales was here?"

Walt's face was pinched tight, Henry's impassive.

I took my right hand off the wheel, swiveled it back, and felt Walt's forehead again. Much cooler. That, at least, was something. He looked etched with exhaustion, but I had seen him that way, before. The crazy stuff like proposing out of nowhere, that was something else. I wouldn't mind hearing words like that someday, but from a lucid mind.

Walt exhaled a long breath and finally hung his head over the seat. The name was a harsh exhalation. "Gorski."


	5. Chapter 5 Road Trip

**Leaving Durant**

**Chapter 5**

**Road Trip**

"What the _fuck_, Walt? _Gorski_?" It was not the first time I had said it in the last half hour. Walt was driving again, despite my protests. I reached over and punched his arm. I couldn't believe he would have anything to do with Gorski again after the debacle at Chance's. He looked at me, and I realized our eyes were once again in contact.

He seemed better, at least for the moment. Memo: keep those meds going into him on a regular schedule. Memo: get him some R&amp;R time without being worried about potential individuals bent on revenge. He spoiled the look by turning his head away and giving a chesty cough. Maybe the meds were starting to loosen his congestion?

"Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?" Henry finally ventured. He sounded atypically tentative, unsure of his ground on this topic. Of course, he'd never met Ed, never been intimate with him, lied to by him, victimized by him—fuck, taking bites out of my shower soap, lying about his wife having altitude sickness when in reality she was not with him and he was divorced, leaving postcards in my locked truck, bullet casings on my hood, the crime report with a cheery _See you Soon_ scrawled over it…

"Somethin' like that. Located him, figured he was low on cash, asked him to keep tabs on Fales. I didn't like how Fales was acting after we exposed him. Afraid Fales might…want revenge on you, Henry." His jaw clenched, but his eyes stayed on the road. "Ed and I came to some understanding during the Chance Gilbert standoff…I think."

"You _think?"_ I did not trust Ed, not one little bit. He had lied to me _repeatedly_, after all. First, about his marriage when we had our whirlwind affair, then from the time he had shown up in Durant. On the other hand, I trusted Walt—_had_ trusted him implicitly until he had revealed he had planned to gun Jacob Nighthorse down. That had damaged any implicitness, but not my faith in his desire to protect me. Our current situation only confirmed that.

"I thought of covert ops…" he looked over to Henry on this one, "and that if he could get close to Fales, as though he had an ax to grind with me…over Vic…"

"Oh, shit," I breathed. It was surreal. _What if Gorski was actually still obsessing over me, not merely a ploy to contact Fales_? _If so, what a sad, scary little man._ And, if so, Walt might be in danger, too...

"But Henry's right. At least Gorski's been reporting Fales' locations, but not his _plans_, yet, which makes me wonder…"

"Whether Gorski may have thrown in with Fales?" asked Henry. "What is in it for him?"

"I dunno," admitted Walt, shaking his head.

I thought I might. "Maybe _me_? Ed may not be happy you're alive, Walt. I'm pretty sure he left satisfied, thinking Chance killed you in the duel. Ed said he wanted me to _lose everything I—um, love_." The word love came out in almost a whisper. "He may think Fales getting me would get to you, or…or if a truly twisty mind, that getting you might free me up for him. Or some convoluted thing like that…"

Walt's eyes, the penetrating ones, looked over after I whispered _love._ So, I had let slip, and my cards were on the table, but Walt had to have pretty much known that, at least by the time I freaked out over his wound at the hospital, and confirmed when I had signed those divorce papers as soon as he said he wanted me to stay. I thought I could see it in his eyes, he wasn't being Neutral Boss Man like he had been during the Linder investigation, he was asking me to stay for himself. I knew that asking anything specific for himself was a rarity, after shadowing the man for more than three years.

Henry shook his head over that. "This may be TMI, I am not sure I want to know this entire story…"

"How are you communicating?" I asked Walt, after giving Henry a glare. "He doesn't have your burner number, does he?"

"Nope, he reports through Ruby."

"So—Gorski's a Baker Street Irregular?" I asked, the notion brilliant, but the execution just so _wrong._ I wondered if Sean was next on his list, so he could keep tabs on _all _my old flames, by throwing a little cash their way.

That Sherlock Holmes reference earned me a grin from Walt, one like the old days just after I'd come to work for him, like that time we'd been on Pronghorn Ridge. It was one I hadn't seen for a while. He looked about twenty when he grinned like that. He shouldn't do it often, or he'd have the women of Durant trailing about after him with their tongues lolling out. I thought, _around me, he should definitely do that. Often._

"Sorta. I thought I'd help him out since he helped me at Chance's. It took guts to for him walk out of those trees in plain view of a fully-armed militia. We'd both seen one of Chance's guys take out a State Trooper with one shot earlier that afternoon."

I closed my eyes and shivered. I still saw the trooper's face in the body bag in my dreams. I sometimes woke up in sweats over it, because I thought it had been Walt in the bag. Hearing the callousness of popping the Trooper made me shiver again, because it could have so easily been Walt killed like that, or later, in the duel.

"Vic?" Walt must have sensed my distress. "You okay?"

"Fuck, yes, just—no more about Chance's compound today, please."

He laid a large hand on my knee. "Sorry." I think he probably knew I still got the shakes from that series of events. I shook off the miasma. It receded, but hovered, just out of the corner of my eye. I hated when it overtook me. I acknowledged that I probably needed to see a shrink at some point, but that time was just not now.

"So, how many minutes do we have that can't be triangulated?" he asked Henry.

"You had two hours. There is about an hour left after all your messages and calls."

I still felt awful about ignoring his heartfelt messages, but I still could not forget about his intended end-run toward Jacob. I could probably forgive, but it was scary that he had been so close to catastrophe. At this point, the Jacob thing seemed to be a stand-off between us. Or maybe it was between our hearts.

"Once we get back to the Rez we may be out of burner cell range, dependent on the network it piggybacks on," said Henry, at that moment sounding very techie.

"We'll check in with Ruby before we get to the Rez," said Walt.

My phone rang. It was still turned on, waiting for Vogel. I put it on speaker.

"It's on for noon, Colfax and Wadsworth in front of the Casa Bonita. Just park way out in the lot. Sorenson will be there with a white Dodge SUV. Do you want a password?"

"Sure, might as well be all cloak and dagger in the big city."

"Password will be _feathers._" Of course he referred to the item missed in a fourteen minute autopsy which resurrected his career. His voice hesitated. "Vic, keep in touch. We'll still be down here if you change your mind, or that big guy with the hat gets on your nerves."

From where I sat, I could see _that big guy_ _with the hat_ press his lips together. I wasn't sure whether he was scowling, or about to laugh.

"Okay, thanks," I said, and meant it. "Good-bye." I hung up that phone and looked both ways to include the men flanking me.

"Sounds good," said Walt. "Let's gas up, and get out of here as soon as we make the pick-up. There's plenty of room for your stuff…"

"We need a good tarp and bungie cords," said Henry. It is going to rain later. We might as well buy those while we are waiting."

I looked at the cloudless Colorado sky. "How do you know? Some mystic Cheyenne predictor?"

Henry gave me his driest, most pity-for-the-white-woman Cheyenne Look. "Channel 9 mobile app. I checked while you two were talking at breakfast. Besides, it is not Denver, it is a forecast for most parts of Wyoming which we must pass through."

"Well, fuck me."

I said that, but I felt unaccountably better. My prospective job was bust, my former boss was sick to the point of periods of dementia, his friend was barely tolerating me, but I was going to have my things back and presumably a place to hole up in Wyoming until things cooled off.

I knew why we were all so wary of Fales' return, because he was a cop, cops learn to think like suspects as they improve their skills, and so he knew how to take us out. The three of us were thorns in his sides. And if Gorski was an unknown quantity, now…well, add to the mix that he had also been a cop, and already had history as a loose cannon. They both had bones to pick with at least Walt and me, and Fales with Walt and Henry.

They were out there—somewhere. And we were still in Denver.

XXX

The Wal-mart saved us. Henry stopped at an ATM and went into the Wal-Mart, while I ostensibly babysat the sick guy. I did reach for his hand and just held on for a while as he fitfully dozed. It was probably close to time for more meds.

Henry returned with a basket filled with assorted groceries, tarps and such. He stashed everything in the bed.

The transfer with Vogel's guy went off without a hitch. All my stuff was in the back of the truck, except my duty belt, Glock, ammo and cuffs, which I had retrieved immediately. As a fashion statement, it didn't really work with the gray dress pants I had been going to wear to the tour of the Denver P.D. that afternoon, but it would do until we got further up I-25.

I gave Vogel a quick call, but only got his voicemail.

"Thanks for the opportunity, and if things don't resolve in Durant, I will let you know." Walt had looked at me out of the corner of his eye as I said it. I would _not_ let anyone assume I was returning to the ASD in Durant. As far as I was concerned, there might be another Jacob situation down the road. Walt and I had a lot to hash out before anything could be decided between us.

After lunch we headed north, and I was driving again, after all, I was the only one who'd had close to a night's sleep, and the guys were snoozing. Walt had called shot-gun, but I think it was just so he could sit next to me. He had retrieved his hat, coat and boots, sans star, tipped the hat down over his face, and slouched in the passenger seat. He looked much more like himself again. Henry was in the backseat, lying down, but belted in a couple of places. Just in case.

I was at the speed-limit, watching the clouds build in the sky. After a while, I caught the glint of Walt's eyes watching me from under his hat. He looked better, although he had undergone another coughing fit after lunch. I had insisted we hit a drive-through with large drinks as we left town, and that he take meds again. We made a brief pit-stop just south of Cheyenne. The traffic had decreased in proportion to our distance away from the city. We were now close to the Wyoming border, where the speed limit would go up yet again, and I could let Omar's horses have their heads. I had been watching for any obvious following vehicles all the way, and so far had seen none.

Walt extended his arm, large palm up. I transferred the wheel to my left hand, and put my right hand in his. He gripped it. The hand was not so warm as it had been, maybe due to the Tylenol I had pressed on him again during our mobile lunch. Hopefully the antibiotics were helping, too.

"Let's take the back way up," he said suddenly. "Through Thermopolis. It's not as direct, but he, or they, might not be expecting it. We can stop at a Safeway or something in Lander if we need anything more."

"Why are we running, Walt?" I knew I ran from Philly, but that was at Sean's request. Walt was the kind of guy to take a stand, not run with his tail between his legs, or so I pointed out, the obvious. "It's not like you."

Silence from Walt.

"Vic," said Henry from the back seat, "We will go to a safe place to rest, heal, and ready ourselves for any potential confrontations."

I knew Henry meant arm ourselves, clean our weapons, develop a strategy. Walt had said Henry had once been Special Forces. In the company of Walt, he still was.

"Henry's right. I know I'm not okay and I know my limitations. I'm better, though, now you're with us."

He didn't look better, but maybe he was just tired. I worried.

"And you two came down to protect _me_? I would think he has a fucking bigger beef with both of _you_ who humiliated him, exhuming Miller Beck and piecing together the Ridges puzzle. You coming down to Denver seems almost like a…tease…to draw him back…" A thought occurred to me that they had deliberately come down to retrieve me, removing me from consideration in the scheme of revenge, almost like I was…_bait._

Walt jerked his head in acknowledgment of my words. "It's a possibility Fales may have figured out that hurting you might hurt me. We think he's had someone reporting back to him the last few months."

I stared over a few seconds. "Like, a stooge, a deep throat in _Durant_? Not _Gorski?_"

"No, I don't think it was Gorski, but Fales was way too well-informed about us. How did he find us this morning?"

"_Shit_."_._ I threw a quick look over my shoulder, Henry's way. "But—there's _nothing_ to be informed about…_us_."

"He probably knows you and I are close. Henry, Cady, you, Ruby, Ferg…are all possible candidates. You were probably the easiest target, alone and unprotected in Denver."

"_Shit_," I said again, with feeling.

"Exactly."

"So, we're headed to the Rez to draw him in?"

"Not necessarily. It will likely be cat-and-mouse, but we'll try and set the place and time. For now, I need a few days to recuperate, get strong again. Just having you safe, Vic…that is helping."

"We're not safe, yet," I said. It must've been my day for pointing out obvious-ness.

"What safer place could we be than the Rez? Fales will stick out, no matter what he is or isn't driving. Mathias already has an APB on him, so hopefully his presence will be reported pretty quickly."

"Where will we stay?"

"Henry's grandmother's house. We just call it _The 14._"

"Is that the address?"

"Yep, 14 Elk Road."

"Who lives there?"

"Nobody, right now. He inherited it a couple of years ago after she died, but has been fixing it up to resell at some point."

"Oh."

We left behind flat Colorful Colorado and crossed into flat Wyoming, but I wasn't going to ask Walt to try and set up the dash GPS. We had turned it off in Denver, along with the phones. I was yawning, and wondering why the guys weren't dozing again. In particular, Walt was sweating and blotchy. He coughed stuff up a few times. I hope that meant his chest was clearing.

"Henry," Walt asked after a while to the back seat, "Does your friend still have that rental in Lander?" Maybe he was worse than I thought, if he was thinking about stopping before the Rez?

Henry unbuckled and popped up, arms hanging over. "I believe so, why do you ask?"

"I really don't want to stop at a motel, cash or not, and if we could hole up at your friend's place overnight so we can sleep, it would be great. I don't think any of us are equipped to drive back all the way, tonight."

What Walt the stoic didn't admit, _wouldn't_ admit, was that his energy was fading.

"My phone is off, Walt." Henry joined me in the point out the obvious club.

"How about the pay phone at the IGA?"

"I believe you know every pay phone in the state of Wyoming," grumbled Henry, "but it is not a bad idea."

We stopped in Cheyenne at the IGA and Henry made a brief phone call with change Walt fished out of his coat pocket. Walt and I changed positions. We loitered there until the pay phone rang and Henry answered it. He opened the passenger door and I scooted over to make room for him, putting me lined up the length of Walt's body. He felt hot again.

"It is vacant until the end of the month. The key is inside a fake rock in the front garden of the house."

"Well, okay, then. We have a place and groceries, and hopefully they won't think of this place too fast…will take a while to trace us there…"

"That's if they are still able to trace us," I said. "But we're not going to make it easy for them." I thought of Branch, and all the surveillance he had set up looking for David Ridges.

Walt took the wheel again, but I watched his face surreptitiously from my close proximity. I wished I could erase the pain and strain I saw there.

After a while watching the rolling scenery, I thought of Branch and helping him with cameras near the cliffs. "Do you remember that app that Branch had Ferg and me load on our phones a while back?" I asked Walt.

He made a face. "App. That's like a computer program?"

"Yep, program, the one Branch had us load called Exterminator?"

"I do remember that…"

"Well, it's on my phone. It's a bug hunter…as in electronic surveillance detector. Maybe we should do a scan of this truck? Gorski or Fales might have put a GPS locator under it this morning while we were at breakfast…"

"You really think that?" He sounded skeptical.

"I don't know, but there's a chance. I think it could have happened, and that would explain why he risked you seeing him, and why you both saw him just slipping away. This might stop him tracking us while we take the other route."

Walt pulled off at the next exit. He hopped out like he was loathe to get back in the truck, eyeing it warily.

"So what do you do to de-bug us?"

"I'll have to turn my phone on to do it, but then can turn it off again."

"Do it."

"Okay." I bit my lip and studied my waffle to find the app.

"If we are approaching this as covert operations, it would not hurt for Omar to come switch out vehicles with us while we are in Lander," ventured Henry. He could drive down tomorrow and swap with us, in case this approach does not kill all the roaches. If there is still a bug after we de-bug, let Fales drive up to confront Omar."

Walt made a noise of disgust. I looked up from my phone, and I wondered if the fever was worse. His face had the waxy sheen to it I'd seen early that morning. I updated the men.

"Um, I've set it running, and I'll walk around the truck, scanning it. I haven't used this app, before, but Branch said he swore by it—"

My update was punctuated by a claxon emitting from my phone.

"Shit!" Data was scrolling down the screen faster than I could read. I scrolled back up to a flashing diagram.

"Okay…okay, looks like—rear passenger wheel-well?"

Maybe it was Walt's jumpiness, but Henry was already kneeling and feeling under the wheel-well. He ran his fingers around it, thoroughly searching, until he produced a small magnetic lump not much bigger than one of those magnetic key-keepers we used to hide under the hood. He held it up triumphantly, and began to examine it.

"I guess the next question is, now that we have found it, what do we do with it?" he asked.

I tilted my head, thinking, watching Walt studying what appeared to be a convoy of 18-wheelers sailing north past us, maybe to Lander, up to the Tetons, or even Durant. He was hunched over a little, and I could tell he was in discomfort. It was beyond time to find a place to get him into horizontal down-time.

Walt's eyes met mine, apparently still lucid, but he was sweating. Maybe sweating was good, to sweat out the fever? He raised his eyebrows, and I could feel the heat and exhaustion pouring from him.

I shrugged, but nodded to his unspoken question.

"Let's go give a big rig a present," he said, with a sour grin. "The next truck-stop is only about five miles ahead. We can send it out-of-state and send our pursuers another direction."

_Yeah, Fales, _I thought_, go follow one of them big rigs down to Albuquerque or somewhere far away from us!_

After our brief sojourn at the truck-stop, I ran Exterminator again, and it showed _all clear_. I just hoped it was right—I wasn't being dramatic—our very lives might depend on it.

_Thanks, Branch,_ I thought.


	6. Chapter 6

**Leaving Durant**

Chapter 6

**Fork in the Road**

During the first few miles after the truck-stop, something nagged at me. It was something about Branch, but with the jumble my thoughts were in, I was surprised I could even think of his name…I was just so tired down to my bones, worried about Walt, afraid we would miss something, and it was obvious that none of us were prepared for Fales to make a move while we were on the road.

I was surprised I could think of my _own _name. It was a caution from Branch I was trying to recollect, after we had used the app…that was _it. _He had helped us load Exterminator, demonstrated it, and then reminded us to _update every time we were going to use it_, because perpetrators always managed to eventually drill loopholes in each new version of an app.

_Update. _I looked down at the phone in my hand, quickly switched it on, found my list of apps and set Exterminator to update. Walt's eyes were fixed on the road, but Henry looked over, scowling. "Why are you on your phone, again?"

"Because I'm not sure I got them all. Branch said to update every time I used it; I didn't update before you found the one in the wheel-well."

Walt still looked ahead as though the road was all he could handle at the moment, and he was likely right. He looked like he was driving by force of will alone. His forehead furrowed. "You think there might be more?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. All I know for sure is the three of us aren't very fucking popular in some quarters, right now. I'd rather be safer than sorrier."

Henry exhaled in a nod of agreement. Walt looked over to me.

"You gonna run it again, then?"

I nodded to him, discomforted by his pallor, the sheen on his face. If we stopped again, I would relieve him at the wheel until we got to our destination. I wondered if he'd even be able to stand up the next time we stopped. "And then we go off the grid for a while."

"In another pithy bit of information gleaned from my mystic Channel 9 site, we are supposed to have quite the storm brewing late tomorrow, to include the Rez, as much as a foot of snow. We definitely should get off the road by noon, because I do not trust that website. When we get closer, I can personally determine when the snow will begin."

"Of course," I said, studying the screen, which had finished updating, as I set the app to RUN. "A Wyoming blizzard, the perfect conclusion to the road trip from hell." Almost immediately the claxon went off. I groaned. "Fuck!"

I didn't cut off the noise, because a scenic overlook was fast approaching. Walt looked over in question, and I nodded.

"I'll pull over to the far side of the parking lot so we can search for it," Walt grated out. I intended him to lie down after that, so it would work out okay, but I had a bad feeling—the display showed completely different data than the last bug, and it showed multiples_._ I imparted that information with concern.

"So?" Henry asked.

"So…" I swallowed. "I think these might not be in the truck, but have been planted in my stuff. Which means…"

"Searching the entire contents, including your, er, lingerie? I believe I will let the Sheriff have _those_ honors," said Henry, looking over to Walt as though to share a joke. He must have caught sight of Walt's face, and seen what I had seen, that the man shouldn't be doing _anything, _and stopped the banter. "Or perhaps we will let you do your own search of that, Vic, and you can direct me to, er, _safer_ areas to check."

"This is my fault," said, setting my jaw. I should've let us get safe without worrying about fucking clothes or toothbrushes, or my Glock. What I was trying to say was, if they're in my stuff, it means…"

"…Either Vogel's dirty, or he's got surveillance on _him_." It came from Walt. Weary. Flat.

That drew a measure of silence.

At the rest stop, Henry and I all but piled out, but I noticed Walt was very slow, almost deliberate, and stood near-to and touching the truck. Together Henry and I unlaced the tarp and began to go through the boxes, putting inspected boxes at the back of the bed. I almost missed the first device, in my jewelry box, of all places. It was a piece I didn't get into often, and I almost missed the thing which looked like a watch battery stuck inside the box lid.

"Fuck!" I yelled, when the app's warning claxon continued after removing the offending item and moving it a distance away. The app was only good for short-range detection. Say, in a pickup bed.

"We will find it, or them, Vic. We will just continue."

I wished for Henry's patience. The sky went dark, and for a moment I felt like I was in one of those biblical epics, only to see puffy slate-colored clouds gathering to the north. A few were skittering down past us. I tried to catch Walt's eyes, but he was now leaning heavily against the side of the pickup bed. I made a sudden decision, clambered down from the tailgate, came around to the side, and let him lean on me. All the alarms went off in me when he leaned heavily and did not protest.

"Shit, Walt, get inside and sit your ass down before you fall and hurt something, and Henry and I have to take you to the ER."

I could barely get him back into the truck, but this time, I made him get in the back seat, and he still did not protest. I looked into those eyes which told me so much, which had tried to hide his feelings for so long, and not been entirely successful. They burned at me, but not anger or even lust. He just looked exhausted, but at least not vague like he had at the cabin. I touched his brow. Feverish, but not as bad as it had been in Denver.

"You rest or I'll get out the cuffs." Then, before he could react, I kissed him on his brow. "I mean it, shithead."

"Bossy." He gave a weak and almost boyish grin, lay back, and closed his eyes.

I forced myself back out of the truck. The claxon was still going off when Henry called, "Vic!" and I went around to see what he had found. It was a different piece, in with my toiletries. He whispered into my ear, "I think it might a microphone?"

I gave him my best, _WTF _look. Another level of surveillance? Trying to spy on us _after_ we stopped? Removing it from the truck, Henry and I did several more scans around the perimeter. My phone began to protest that it needed to be charged.

What it needed was to be _off._ What we _all_ needed was to be _off the road_, safe, warm and fed and out of the imminent weather.

All the subsequent scans came back clean. To use a control, Henry and I went back over the two identified pieces and my phone screamed at us in dirty confirmation. I thought, I should thank Branch once again, this time for the good advice regarding follow-up.

"I hope that was all of them." Henry did not dismiss the significance of those presumably planted by one of Vogel's lackeys—one who may have loaded my stuff out of the rental car and motel room and brought them to us.

"But, _why_, Henry? Why one of Vogel's guys?" I asked as I climbed in to drive the rest of the way. Both men were both way more exhausted than I was, and I wouldn't put up with that male stoic bullshit if it was going to put us over a rail and into a canyon. The Chance Gilbert incident closed in on me from time-to-time, precipitated by the accident with the bear.

"In with Fales?" theorized Henry.

That just made my mind spin, when I needed to be sharp. "Fuck, I need coffee," I said as I started Omar's beast.

"We can stop for that, but then let us not stop again until we get there. It looks like quite a storm brewing ahead."

I tried to surreptitiously glance into the backseat, but didn't say anything. Henry laid his arm on my shoulder, which was obviously meant to be comforting.

"He will be all right. I have seen him come through much worse."

I sighed, resigned, powered down my phone, and attached it to the dash to charge. _We might need it again, sooner than later_, I thought. I put the big truck into gear and began to drive.

XXX

After we left the convenience store coffee and made a brief pit stop, the first few drops began to pelt the windshield. Walt was still in the backseat, and at least quiet, if not asleep. I was driving, and we were about to leave I-25.

"So, not to the Rez? We're still going to Lander?" I asked Henry. It was his to decide, with Walt was fitfully asleep in back.

He shrugged. "Whoever is surveilling us may suspect we are headed to Durant by tracking us to that rest area…but if they have lost us, now, the rest of Wyoming is huge. Even if they could get lucky and find us in Lander, there is a lot of territory there to cover if the GPS locators are truly all removed. I do not think we should linger there long, though, or we will be running into worse weather tomorrow. I will feel safer on the Rez. We have many friends there."

I snorted. "Be careful using that _we_. You probably have lots, and I guess Walt has at least May and Lonnie, but I'm not sure about Mathias, and I don't think I have any there at all. Also, it's pretty close to Durant."

"Do not discount your discretion in locating May's daughter, resolving the Cassandra Two Rivers murder, and following up by arresting Travis to help Mathias, among other investigations. Hector was also ready to do your bidding, and respected you. Besides, it has something that Durant does _not_ have."

"And that would be…?"

"A Moccasin Telegraph. Faster than email. Some of our friends will set up a perimeter, take watches, possibly bring us food, whatever we need."

"Well…" I went on, "I basically ruined the Miss Cheyenne dance competition, and I've not always been respectful of your culture. I helped get Hector killed because of that Gorski business." I always felt dark about that, the first and hopefully _last_ man I would ever see who'd been scalped.

He looked over and grimaced. "You did not kill him, and Walt and I together bear more of that guilt than you ever could. Also, you and Walt _did_ solve those murders, and you both attempted to save Hector and keep him out of the limelight long before that."

Walt coughed in the backseat, apparently still in his sleep. It was a wet cough, and concerned me.

My lips twisted and I looked over my shoulder again, and I'm sure my expression betrayed my concern.

"I hope the pneumonia turns around soon," I said, but it came out almost wistful. It was not my typical take-no-prisoners delivery. It was more of a soft side reveal, and I started at my own words.

Henry gave me a brief, sharp look.

"Fuck that," I said, trying to recover my composure. "With this thing turning into a conspiracy from all sides, and headed into a blizzard tomorrow, I hope _everything_ will turn around soon."


	7. Chapter 7

**Leaving Durant**

**Chapter 7**

**Lander**

_**A/N: This chapter ended up pretty long, about the length of two chapters, but I couldn't really figure out a way to divide it well. It's a long appetizer to the entrée. It's setting up a lot of things, including action &amp; relationship scenes, but I had to get there from here…so they are still on the road. Just FYI, upcoming characters include Matthias, May, and Lonnie Little Bird.**_

_**P.S.: If anyone has not read the latest Longmire mystery, no spoilers here.**_

The house was a modest frame ranch in an older residential section on the outskirts of Lander. It looked like it had been dutifully kept up, if not remodeled from time-to-time. Henry had taken the wheel again just before we got into town, because he knew Lander, and I had never been there before. The home boasted alley access with an actual carport, into which Henry threaded the monster Dodge. The skies had gone from sprinkles to opening up about an hour back (he had once more briefly consulted the Channel 9 mobile app using the burner for one of his predictions) and I in turn thanked Henry for his foresight in protecting all my belongings. We had carefully re-tarped them at the rest-stop in prescience of the storm to come. Walt was currently softly snoring in the back, but stirred as Henry stopped.

Almost everything I owned was in the back of that truck, winnowed from what had been the Keegan-Moretti family home. The house in Durant now bore a large For Sale sign in front, had been staged to look barely occupied and therefore larger, and was now broadcasting vacancy on the outskirts of Durant. It was sort of the last gasp from my marriage, and hopefully would limiting any further connections with Sean. We would both have to sign closing papers at some point from different countries, but if the sale went well, would both walk away with a little cash after the realtors and everyone else got their cut.

That wasn't the present, though, and my reserves were low. I had hoped my job in Denver would tide me over until the house sale went down. Now, I wasn't so sure. I was currently living on the largesse of Henry, and possibly Walt, and that didn't go down well with me. If I didn't take Vogel's job, I had nowhere to live, and, unless I could make my peace working with Walt again, no job to go back to for paying those pesky bills.

Walt's suggestions in Denver became less and less palatable as I came to realize just how sick he had been to offer or even _consider_ them, and I wasn't sure I could ever work for him, again. It wasn't that if I had stayed, I might not be interested in a future with him, but his actions had led to where we were, now, and as far as I could tell, at the moment, we were both pretty broken people. I didn't want him to even _think_ of something as either saving me or because he _owed_ me, and right now, those seemed the only reasons out there for those offers.

It might have been different if he'd taken the opportunity to test or develop our relationship earlier, but everything with Henry, then Martha, and the illness had seemed to put wrenches in anything remotely like that happening. I had not felt I had the right or luxury to try and step it up, as I was still waiting the finalization of my divorce, although it would probably happen sooner than the sale of the house.

Walt sat up as we stopped, his eyes reflecting the motion lights of the carport, which had come on as Henry had entered. It was soggy out, but the truck was at least under a temporary oasis. He was groggy, but his eyes looked clear.

"I think we should ask Omar if he could bring one of his SUVs over, and swap out vehicles tonight." It was the first thing Walt had said since the rest-stop. He sounded particularly growly in the damp.

"Okay," I said. "Why?"

"If anyone is on our tail, they'll be looking for the black truck, and it will be easier to duck visual or electronic surveillance that way."

"Okay, who wants to call him?" I would if I had to, but with lucky me, Omar would just never let up.

"I will," said Walt quietly, "on my phone," then bent with a fit of coughing. I bit my lip. I didn't like the sound of it, but maybe some of it was from the wet weather. He was still sitting in the backseat, and had not done his normal bounding out to the ground, just sat there.

"I'll—start bringing in my stuff." I was so used to him giving orders that I just had to fill the silence.

He cleared his throat. His voice was very low. "Only what's necessary for tonight, or a couple of days. We might have to get out quickly, and leave everything else. Pack a bag and leave the rest in the truck. Bring your duty jacket and warm clothes, though, supposed to be snow tomorrow."

I did not like the idea of having to suddenly leave, and I had not liked the forecast from Henry, especially if Walt was concerned over it. I trusted them both over myself on the whims of Wyoming weather, but it didn't sound promising for a drive through the mountains.

Morever, my _duty_ jacket shouted employment, and just because he hadn't given my letter to Ruby and asked her to process all that it implied, didn't mean I still worked for him. I would take a civilian winter parka, thermal underwear and Sorels as well.

"Right. Warm clothes. So, where does my stuff go if I'm just leaving it unprotected out here?"

"It'll be okay tonight, and then, it will go to Omar's for a few days. If there are still bugs, they can go infest Omar…if they can make it through Palace Security. Your belongings will be safe, and I don't think anyone there would have any reason to mess with them."

Ha-ha, yes, Omar probably had the best security system west of the Mississippi, including a small army of dedicated employees who all knew how to keep their mouths shut, if necessary. At the station, his compound had been dubbed "Palace Omar" home to the Omar and Myra Mutual Assault Show. I had been out there a couple of times with Walt for consultations with Omar on cases, and another couple of times to run interference in Omar's marriage, which consisted of ongoing threats from each spouse to kill one other. Domestic bliss indeed.

After the marriage had ended, Omar had seemed to shift his focus onto me. Fuck, unlike the trophy women he usually had on his arm, I was probably one of the few females he knew who could discuss ammo, weaponry, and shoot straight. I always figured I must remind him of Myra, who wasn't afraid to get down and dirty, and knew all too well how to shoot—at him. To me, it was a miracle they hadn't hurt or even killed one another in all the battles at their homestead over the years.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. It was obligatory body language when dismissing Omar from one's thoughts, but that made room for another, more immediate one.

"Shouldn't one of us call Vogel, and tell him he has a mole, or at least a Fales sympathizer or two in his department?" I wasn't trying to rack up Brownie points with Vogel, just give him a heads-up before a conspiracy to mutiny could send him back to Vice, and with that, any possibility of me getting a job with him if things stayed south in Durant.

"Yep."

"I don't think all the bugs were from Fales, or even Fales and Gorski."

"Yep."

Walt usually resorted to monosyllables when he was thinking or overwhelmed. I could see his eyes glittering, and thought the fever must have spiked due to the wet afternoon, exhaustion, or both. It was definitely the overwhelmed variety and past time for a lie-down in something not moving.

"Raoul said he would have sheets on and towels ready for us," said Henry, and I thanked Raoul profusely in my head. Henry had quite a network of friends, Walt, too, for that matter, and it seemed like the majority of them did not overlap culturally or in any other way.

"How do you know Raoul?"

"I dated his sister in high school," said Henry without inflection.

Walt cleared his froggy throat, "I believe you said you _deflowered_ his sister in high school?"

Henry glared at him, so I changed the subject. "So, four hours from here to the Rez?"

"Yep," said Walt. "Tomorrow, probably pretty early, as soon as our ride gets here."

I pressed my lips together. What did I need for a few days? Probably a couple of duffles, given the cold-weather stuff. I could keep them by the back door, ready to exit in the event of emergency flight. I wondered idly what kind of small arsenal retrieved from the nooks and crannies of Omar's truck we would be adding to them…

"You ready to get out?" I asked. He swung his legs out the open door, but both Henry and I steadied him, got him into the house, and to an easy chair.

"We'll unload, get things ready for quick exit, get some meds and food into you, and settle in for the night.

"Omar, then Vogel," he croaked, and shut his eyes.

I exchanged looks with Henry, who nodded.

XXX

The house might have been remodeled in the 1980s. It was all blonde oak, almond appliances, done in colors like mauve and jewel tones, but it was clean, dry and warm.

First on the agenda was food. Henry heated up soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches, great comfort food for a rainy evening, and I think we all needed comfort at that point. Walt didn't eat much at first, but I pressed him so that he almost finished what was there. Maybe he thought of me as a nag; I didn't much care what he thought, as long as he slowly improved.

He had scared the holy shit out of me in Denver. The illness was bad enough, but to affect him _mentally_ was beyond anything I had ever seen, before. The occasional mention of a vision, maybe, that even weirded me out…but even those had not been like he had been earlier today or worse, after the Connally shooting.

Henry and I agreed to alternate watches. Henry was first, I agreed to take second. I wondered if Henry thought I could more easily get Walt to stop and rest to heal, or whether he thought Walt and I might be able to talk things out that had gone wrong between us, or maybe both. I did not think the latter was going to happen for a few days. We were both too tired, and he was still having bouts with the fever. We _both _needed to be lucid for _that_ conversation.

Henry did mention something which had not occurred to me.

"We have not discussed sleeping arrangements. There are two bedrooms, if you want to sleep in one. I'll take first watch, and I'll sleep there after I wake you."

"Um," I said, all articulate in my weary stupor, then realized, no, Walt's condition bore monitoring. He wasn't out of the woods, yet. "Um," I said again, "Ah, I—think I'll stay close to Walt until that fever goes down."

Henry only nodded without comment, but he added, "I called Ruby on the burner. She says Cady will be back in town this weekend. I suggest you let her give you a break if you need it."

I bit my lip. I had not seen her since that night at the cabin after everything hit the fan. I had heard she had sat at Branch's bedside, visited Walt briefly, and then left town. I wasn't sure of the dynamics of it all; I hadn't yet had the courage to ask Walt about it.

"I'll…think about it." _Damn. _ I wasn't sure why she had left, unless he had said something to her about me. Even worse_, _I wasn't sure I _wanted _a break.

Walt had called Omar on the burner and the wealthy outfitter was headed over later, password _Sharps_. Walt had fallen back asleep, phone still clutched in his hand. Henry and I roused him long enough to get meds into him, after which we walked him into the bathroom.

I was thinking it had been almost two days since he'd been in Billings, and I insisted Walt have a shower and stood back while he unbuttoned his shirt, studiously trying not to look at him anywhere, despite all the inclinations I had suppressed over the last couple of years during the attempts to salvage my marriage. My hands yearned to skim over him, my fingers to run through his hair, all over him, really, and I just wanted to hold him close. I wondered if we had been seeing one another instead of holding off whether this injury would have still happened with Ridges. I might have been with him as backup, or at least wouldn't have let the injury go untended for one minute if we had been intimate.

When his shirt hung open, I couldn't suppress a gasp. Most of his torso was blotchy in a rainbows of healing yellows and greens, but some purple still radiated across a four inch variegated eggplant circle bulls-eyed over his right ribs. It looked as though he might have even re-injured it. Henry, who was still standing at the door, inhaled sharply, and I threw a disbelieving look at him. My anguish must have shown.

Walt reached for me, but I evaded him easily. "It's all right, Vic," he said, but I knew he could see I was shaken.

"Did you know about this?" I almost whispered to Henry.

Henry shook his head, "If you mean have I seen it, no, the nurses were caring for him at the hospital. Doctor Bloomfield said he had internally bruised a lung and suffered a cracked rib from the injury."

"From the fight, right? You mean, from Ridges?" I asked the room, my voice a little stronger.

Walt looked down at his torso dismissively. "Oh, that."

"Yes, that," I said, standing in front of him again. He showed no inclination to stand.

"It might help if you have something to sit on in the shower, Henry volunteered. I will see if I can find a stool."

The guilt was back, full-force. Where had I been when he had been ambushed by David Ridges? I had been locked in his office, guarded by Ferg, in case Branch might have made a move against _me_. Walt had taken this one for the team_, _with his other deputy protecting _me_. In essence, _for me_. First a duel, taking on Branch in the office, then Ridges' ambush. I shook my head, shut my eyes and exhaled for a moment, then took a deep breath for strength. I had to make this right. It was amazing Walt had even been upright and walking around Denver as recently as this morning. It was stoicism on steroids.

I couldn't help myself. I put my palm over the terrible bruising, but it didn't cover the entire area. "This was my fault." I know my eyes spoke the apology I was feeling.

Walt looked up. "No, no one could have predicted the outcome." I wondered if he meant the ambush, the wound, or both. He looked down his torso, closed his eyes, and then his right hand slowly slid along my arm, to cover where my hand splayed across the damage. Even his huge hand did not cover the extent of the bruising, but it did, surprisingly, comfort me a little.

"After Hector?" I shook my head. "Anything was possible. Ferg and I should have gone as back-up, after all, Ridges had killed twice and damaged Cady's car, to boot."

"We weren't sure that he had killed twice at that point."

"We were sure he'd killed at least _once_, and in a cowardly, heinous fashion," I argued. Everything surging inside drew me toward his closed and pensive face. I would have wrapped him then in my embrace, but Henry cleared his throat at the door.

"This is the best I could find. Do you want me to stay and help?"

It was a wooden kitchen stool, but it would work if I dried it carefully after so it wasn't permanently damaged. Walt looked from the stool to me.

I spoke for Walt, who still looked like he was struggling in his head. "Thanks. No, we'll manage fine."

I placed the stool in the shower, came back, and with some difficulty and what probably was with some pain, Walt removed his belt and jeans.

I laid a towel across his lap and let him remove his boxers, and, as he wrapped the towel around his waist, gave him a hand up. "C'mon, cowboy, time to get clean."

He managed to wash while I tried to be occupied doing other things, always averting my eyes, but it was really tough not to look, and to keep everything impersonal. We were both too damaged, and yet so much more than friends to just _hook up_, and I think we both realized that. It made his all offers in Denver that much more surreal. There had been something there between us for a long time, I think we both acknowledged that, and were just waiting for us both to be free and able to act upon it, but now, after all that had happened… at the moment, the whole notion felt like it had gone to hell. But, his hand over mine…_that_ didn't feel like hell…

After he was clean, I had him turn around on the stool, so the hot water could pelt on his back. I began to not so gently pound at the middle of his back to loosen the gunk in his lungs. I had done that once before when Michael had pneumonia as a teenager. It _had_ helped then. Walt began to cough and spit, even as Henry poked his head in.

"I added towels over the sheets in case his fever breaks. We will probably not have time to do laundry in the morning, but I also do not want to ruin Raoul's bed."

I looked up. "Good idea. Henry, he _is_ coughing up a lot of stuff." I had not stopped my pounding. "And he's almost out of clean clothes. Should we at least do a load tonight?"

"The coughing up is good, so you stay with him, and yes, I will do a little laundry next. Do you have some as well?"

"Most of mine is in the truck, but it was all clean when I headed down to Denver. I should be good."

I found clean boxers in Walt's bag, did the reverse with the towel in lap, let him struggle into them and added a sweatshirt, before leading him back to bed. He was still leaning heavily on me, and seemed inutterably weary. As Walt lay back, I began to retreat to the front room to call Vogel.

"Don't go," he whispered.

"Um. I'll only be gone a couple of minutes. I need to call Vogel, then I'll be back, okay? I won't leave again tonight." I couldn't promise him more. I couldn't promise him much of _anything_ at the moment, but a deeper part of me that still ached for him over his injuries wanted so desperately to say, _I can refuse you nothing._

"Oh. 'Kay." I think he was asleep only moments after his head hit the pillow.

After repeatedly getting Vogel's voicemail, I finally emailed him a quick but carefully worded message from my phone. If he was being surveilled, probably phone, email, or both were being watched, but this way, at least I had let him know. I did not mention the bugs per se. just that he needed to screen his department for sympathizers from the previous division. If he was half the detective Walt thought he was, he could surely figure it out from there.

Henry had disappeared outside, where it had stopped raining but was cold, and the wind had come up. A front, I thought idly, one of the thousands going through Wyoming each year.

I wasn't sure what _his_ first watch entailed, but I sure didn't want to sit outside during second watch. Having discharged my duties, I went in and sat by Walt, whose sleep was once again fitful. He was feverish, not too bad, but my concern was for the persistence of the fever, not its existence.

I found a washcloth, wet it, and laid it over his forehead. He began mumbling.

"Get her. Get her back."

"Who Walt, get _who_ back?"

"Vic."

"I'm back. I won't leave again." Maybe it would be a lie down the road, but for now, it was truth.

I took his hand, but it was mine which was trembling, but whether in exhaustion or with desire, I'm not sure which. He sighed, apparently more peaceful. I hoped he would sleep better. I waited until his breathing grew even.

I said in a very soothing voice, to not waken him, "Don't worry, I'll stay until you're better," but in my mind, I was thinking, _I know_ _I'm a lousy Florence Fucking Nightingale. Heal, so we can finally talk it out. Maybe._

Between us, Henry and I had given him meds and plenty of blankets, but he was still shivering. I pushed my lips together, what my mother had always called my _stubborn set_ and made an executive decision, crawled under the covers and laid carefully next to, but not touching him. My head felt heavy, like I couldn't move another inch, and I could feel heat radiating from him. Maybe some of mine could reflect or defuse that.

It was a good thing I wasn't on watch. I must have fallen asleep in just a couple of minutes.

I'm not sure how long it was, but I woke up to more shivering, he was wrapped around me from behind, and I was _damp._ I reached a hand behind me, and the sweatshirt was _soaked_. Maybe it was the fever breaking, as Henry had suggested it might, but he was definitely covered all over in sweat.

"Okay," I said, rousing him, and as he leaned heavily on me to the bathroom, "Let's get you another shower."

We went through the ritual again, with his last pair of clean, dry boxers, and I had him sit in the easy chair in the bedroom, while I stripped the towels off the sheets. Fortunately, the sheets below were dry. He just seemed exhausted and nearly fell asleep in the chair in the short time it took me to fix the bed and change into a dry shirt myself.

"Sorry, Vic," he had mumbled a few times, but I reassured him. Actually, I had said something more on the order of, "Shut the fuck up. There's nothing to be sorry for, the fever breaking is a _good_ thing."

He crawled back under the covers, and seemed to return to sleep almost instantly. I sat nearby, considered relieving Henry, and suddenly found myself starting awake as the burner in the other room rang. I have no idea how long I'd been asleep, but I forced myself up, feeling Walt's forehead cool, and stumbled into the front room. Henry had answered it.

"Password," Henry said clearly.

Omar must be here exchanging vehicles.

I lifted my eyebrows. Henry ended the call.

"Omar. He brought a couple of men with him and he is going to take them to breakfast at The Middle Fork, then ride escort for us back to the Rez turn-off."

"A couple of guys?" I asked suspiciously.

"When you get to know Omar better, you will not ask questions."

"I don't think I _want_ to know Omar better…"

"Not in _that_ way, but as a friend and ally. He is loyal to Walt."

"If he's escorting us back, what if there are still bugs in the truck…?"

"It is not a bad idea for him to accompany us. Omar could forestall an ambush. He increases our odds by sheer numbers, and of course his guys are armed."

"God, I feel so paranoid."

"Warranted. I have never been bugged before, that I know of, Vic."

I sighed. "Okay…should I wake Walt and let's get going?"

"I am going to make sandwiches to take with us. By the time Omar is done devouring everything at The Middle Fork, we can have the car packed and ready and then wake Walt. Did you say his fever was down?"

"Broken and seems to have stayed down the last couple of hours, so that's…positive. Are you okay, Henry? You didn't wake me to relieve you."

"I admit fatigue, but will nap on the way, and sleep when we get there. I did not want to wake you, Vic, you looked so peaceful there with Walt."

"Yeah," I said, but I made a face and my lips were pressed together. There was so much unsaid, and just because I was there to help him heal, did not ensure a future together, but it _had_ felt right, being there with him. It had felt even better, him wrapped around me. I had felt _safe_ for the first time in a long time, or maybe _ever_.

"By the way," Henry said as I went to re-pack, "this vehicle has keys, and they are under the visor."

I gave him a weary grin. "He knows Walt well."

"That he does. I will make coffee. You will both need it."

Probably true. I was nowhere near as tired as Henry must be, but I just felt that pervasive fatigue fog hovering about me. I could drive, but I definitely needed that drinking fuel…

In the end, we rendezvoused with Omar a few blocks away, and I pulled in behind him.

The burner rang. I answered it. I could almost hear the big black truck broadcasting, but it was just Omar. "Don't worry Vickie, Omar will have your backs. We'll stay about three miles behind you."

"Copy that." I switched off the burner without elaborating. Walt's minutes were precariously low. I wondered if Omar could hook us up with another burner for Walt to keep in touch with Ruby if he didn't get back to the office for a few more days.

We probably didn't need any escort, of course, but with Omar, it was always Go Big…and it was heartwarming that Walt had another friend of that caliber. Henry, of course, without saying, but also Omar, had helped him out in Ten Sleep during the Cloud Peak incident a couple of years back.

The dawn was breaking, but a huge gray wad of puffy dark clouds preceded us. I looked over to Henry in some concern.

"The storm may start before we get there, but not by much. I am anticipating it to begin about noon." The Cheyenne Nation had foregone his Denver app for his own, more accurate, predictions as he returned to his own neck of the woods.

I nodded grimly. I was not afraid to drive in snow, but I also knew all too well the fury of Bighorns weather, after many calls into blizzards and Walt's assault on Cloud Peak.

We headed toward what hopefully would be some down-time for Walt at the Rez, until we could regroup and figure out how to deal with Fales, Gorski, or even possibly Jacob's goons, in other words, whichever of them were out there tracking us. We all just needed to be closer to one hundred percent to figure out a plan of action. I was thinking of Walt, in particular, who I had never seen run from a confrontation. Especially after what he had suffered during the Ridges fight, it was now _our_ turn—Henry and Omar and I—to protect _him_. When he was once more functional, his department could once again become a cohesive unit, whatever that configuration might now mean in Durant, Wyoming, especially if I stayed quit.

I sighed as I drove. It seemed like Durant would at least be once more in my temporary plans, and the future had not yet been written.


	8. Chapter 8

**Leaving Durant**

**Chapter 8**

**Chance's Canyon, or…To The Rez-cue**

_**A/N: This was half-written earlier tonight, but just came FLYING out after I got home from work…who knows why these things happen. I have trouble writing action scenes, but I have tried to choreograph this to read well. Good practice, anyway. Ideas welcome in the "what did I do wrong in the action" department. Next chapter: The Rez.**_

"Omar said he had another vehicle pulled to the side of the road, which will stay about three miles ahead of us—a spotter. He also left us a hand-held radio to avoid cells."

"Like in the army, someone to spot the IEDs, landmines and such?" I asked. I had read about such things, but never experienced them. Walt, Henry and Omar had all been in the military at different times including during the 1983 Beirut bombing. There were times such as these that it showed.

"So, we'll have Omar behind us, the spotter ahead of us, said Walt thoughtfully."

"No squeeze plays," said Henry, with that thin-lipped smile of his which I associated with danger—to his enemies.

I drove for about fifty miles, after which the road began to narrow between canyon walls, and suddenly got a really bad feeling. Not really claustrophobia, more like, I'd been there before, and it was not a safe place.

"Radio." I said. Key me on." Henry looked surprised, but set it.

"Omar. Stand down. Stop where you are, go back. You'll have to go all the way around back to Durant." I left the radio on.

"Copy that, but I'm just gonna to stop 'til you all decide what we're doin'."

"What are you doing?" asked Henry. "We'll lose his _guys_."

"It'll be an ambush. Near Chance's," I said. "Gorski would set it up."

Walt popped up from where he had been reclining in the back. His color was better, but he looked justifiably concerned. "What's wrong?

"This way – this road winds by where Chance's was, right?"

"Right…but no one is there, now."

"But Gorski would know it. Gorski would remember the layout. I suddenly felt almost faint, the sensation of darkness, pain and ringing in my head revisiting itself in my mind.

"Pull over, Vic," said Walt. His voice was as low as I'd ever heard it. I think I must have pulled over okay, but I don't remember doing it. I leaned heavily against the wheel. My eyes were closed against the spiraling lights.

"What's wrong with her?" I heard Henry ask.

"I think she's remembering," said Walt, with concern. "We're near Chance Gilbert's compound."

"It's a perfect place for an ambush," I said, "tactical gold. Narrow canyon, rock overlooks, no place for protection or to turn around. Gorski scoped the area before you got there, and then walked it with you, but, at that time, he just wasn't after _us."_

"But we are not in a black pickup," pointed out Henry.

"If they get us in this, so be it, but I don't want Omar _and his guys_ to take the fall for my fucking mistakes," I said. My voice sounded husky and shaky to myself at the same time.

"Why, thanks, darlin'," came Omar's drawl from the radio. "I didn't know you cared."

"Shit!" I said, keying the radio off myself, but the spiraling receded a little.

"Should we go on, or turn around and make a detour around half of Wyoming with Omar?" Henry asked. "We will have more weather to contend with, and not get there until five or six this evening.

I heard silence, which meant it was Walt, thinking. The silence went on a little longer than normal, no surprise, given he wasn't one hundred percent, yet.

"We go on. If Omar's Spot Car gets into trouble, we can assist."

"Well, on that hopeful note…" said Henry.

Walt exhaled. "Let me drive. I know this road."

I didn't object, as he exited the rear door and climbed into the driver's seat. I briefly felt his forehead, still cool. Our eyes connected a little as he slid to the middle, and I slouched, marginally comforted by large, solid men on either side of me.

The spiraling receded, but another, possibly darker thought intruded, and I exclaimed, "Fuck me, Walt, Henry, we're _all_ the eggs in one basket! I think we need to split up."

They looked at one another over my head. I knew there was merit to what I'd said. We were sitting ducks, whatever vehicle we chose.

Walt keyed the radio back on, we turned around, met up with Omar a few miles back, and changed up a couple of things before the canyon began. Confusion to our enemies.

XXX

About half-way along the drive, not far past Chance's former residence, Henry suddenly sat up. "Two o'clock about two hundred feet up," he whispered. Shit, how did he _see_ like that? Non binoculars, just his personal Cheyenne extra-distance spidey-vision.

I squinted up to the area but could see nothing. Walt's hands tightened on the wheel. In the back seat, Omar and one of his guys were doing weapons checks.

"A man, and a long gun," he said. "I would not be surprised if we find the Spot Car stopped somewhere up ahead."

I clutched my Glock. Henry had some bad-ass rifle I vaguely remembered as an Armalite, and Walt had his Winchester 94 loose down between his seat and the console, since the console in the SUV did not sport a mount.

We rounded the corner, and there was the Spot Car, two passenger-side tires shot out, no one in the car. My eyebrows rose. Two of Omar's _guys_ had been in that car, but were nowhere to be seen.

"Back up!" Henry shouted, taking aim at something high up, and Walt backed around the corner as something whizzed across the road just ahead of the SUV. Henry disappeared out the vehicle passenger door, Omar and his other _guy_ behind him.

"Out, Vic. Get down behind those rocks." He jerked his head. I had no idea what he was about to do, but was pretty sure it was something catastrophically stupid. He wasn't back to Mr. Invincible yet, not by a long-shot, and it was still our turn to protect _him. _Instead, I used some preternatural strength, yanked him out of the car and down with me as a single shot creased the fender of the SUV.

"Fuck!" I hissed and pointed, and we ducked down and ran to the overhang. He was a little out of breath when we got there.

"We shouldn't have stopped," he said, fuming. Should've plowed through."

"And been full of holes. You okay?" I asked, a hand to his shoulder. He was bent over a little, but I didn't think he'd been hit.

"Just sore ribs," he said, and I believed him if the bruises hurt half as much as they had looked during the night. I hoped me yanking him after me hadn't worsened them.

Another shot whizzed by, but missed the car. I thought whoever was shooting wasn't very good, and Vogel had said Fales had been a sniper. In my experience, at least at the time I'd known him, Ed Gorski seemed to have very little experience with the long guns. It might be Gorski, or one of Vogel's flunkies who was moonlighting. Or…one of Jacob's guys? In any case, I thought Fales would be much more cowardly in his attempt on us.

Walt whispered in my ear. If they get him, I have my cuffs and key in my pocket."

Of course he did, it was just how he rolled. No doubt he had his Colt 1911 tucked in the back of his pants under his jacket. He held the Winchester loosely, almost like it was an old friend and extension of his arm. I reflected, maybe it was.

I just held the Glock at the ready if they decided to confront us. We had rock at our backs, and the hilarity of being between a rock and a hard place surfaced in a globule of dark humor to lighten my moment.

A sudden volley of shots rang out from above, followed by Henry's bellow of "Clear!"

I wondered if someone had died, but in a few minutes, a straggly little group came traipsing down the side of the canyon, which included the two Spot Car guys, one of which had a bicep scratch bound with a bandanna. Henry looked nonplussed, as though he did this every day. Well, he likely _had_ in Special Forces, I amended. All that was missing was his aluminum tomahawk and a uniform.

On the other hand, Omar looked more than slightly pleased with himself. "Deputize me, Walt. I got this one." He turned the captor around to show his face. _Gorski_, with zip ties over his wrists_. _I was alternately relieved and horrified to be so right. I also fought the urge to laugh hysterically. Three of my erstwhile suitors stood in one small microcosm.

Walt sighed and held out his cuffs. Omar was enjoying himself _way _too much.

"You can take the oath and take him into Durant, then put an APB out for Fales and call the Denver D.A. The Ferg will help you navigate all that."

"Ah'll be glad to, Walt."

I had to sit down. I was shaking, aftermath of it all, and we were still in Chance's canyon.

"So, is Fales ahead?" I asked Gorski point-blank. "You might as well answer, assault and/or attempted murder of duly sworn law-enforcement personnel, unregistered weapons, and for a former cop and detective, Wyoming prisons are no fun at _all_…"

Gorski tried to use his customary evasive techniques, after all, he'd been a detective, and once a pretty good one.

"Aw, Vic, you can't be serious, choosing _Mister You're a Dead Man if You've Hurt Her_."

My face must have twisted its non-understanding at Gorski's words. Had _Walt _said that?

"Yeah," he said as my face must have betrayed understanding, "that's what he said before we got all chummy walking down to that Gilbert place," said Gorski. You got to have re-thought it all, driving back to get his body."

I stared at Gorski as the night rushed back around me. Driving back had only intensified my feelings, cemented during early morning hours in that examining room when Walt had wrapped himself around me.

Walt quickly interceded. He had evidently heard enough. He wasn't wobbling, but I could see the strain on him standing upright as though nothing else in the world mattered but interrogating this witness.

"Where's Fales' spot?" he asked.

Gorski fidgeted. Walt moved his rifle incrementally. Threatening, yet subtle.

"_Where_?"

"Lighter sentence if I tell you?"

"I'll do my best," said Walt, although I knew he didn't want to do any such thing, but I knew he wanted Gorski to roll on Fales. It would give Walt great pleasure to bring up Fales on charges to that smarmy Denver D.A.

"About four miles ahead, just when you'd think you've got all clear."

"That means…he probably knows by now we're not down there," said Walt, and I knew he was doing calculations of time and distance in his head. I just knew how he thought.

"Who provided the bugs?" Walt asked.

"Bugs?"

"Bunches of them," inserted Henry, "and I have never had an insect problem before."

"I could add Obstruction of Justice…" prompted Walt.

"Fales had one in Denver," said Gorski defensively. "So we could track you up here. It disappeared into a Ladies' Room around the state line."

Walt's eyes met mine. _If _Gorski was telling the truth, then the ones in my luggage _were_ from Vogel's guys.

Henry looked at Walt.

"It will be a tight fit in the SUV. I suggest Omar bring his truck up to load his _guys _and Gorski back to Durant, and follow us. I would definitely like to have a shot at Fales."

I knew in my heart Henry meant more than a figurative shot, and Walt nodded.

"Ah'll call Triple A on the spotter," said Omar, but he was still grinning from his earlier triumph. Big game hunter indeed. Bagged a Wild Gorski on the first try.

Closer to five miles than four, Henry quietly announced. "Fales at eleven. About a hundred feet up. He is lazy or out of practice at long shots to stay so low. His weapon is shiny. We should stop now, before we get too close."

Omar pulled up behind us, and his crew piled out headed up the hill, headed by Henry, leaving Gorski shackled to the metal bolts at the bottom of the truck's front seat. It was _not_ a comfortable position.

I was left with Walt, who had seemed to gain strength as we had moved along down the canyon.

"You really said he was a dead man if he'd hurt me?" I asked. Yeah, well, Walt had fought a duel over me later. I should not be surprised. Nothing he did should surprise me, but his next words did.

"It just slipped out," he said, dry delivery signaling that he really was feeling _much_ better, and so I tentatively took his hand.

"Pretty hot stuff," I said, and then, not to let him get too full of himself, "But we need to talk. At Henry's."

He gave a jerk of his head. Acknowledgment, but for later, because the crew was spilling down from the path toward us.

"Gone, but just minutes ago. I think he had a vehicle around the next corner, but we're too late."

"Just the one up there?" Walt asked Henry, who nodded.

"So, he's ahead of us?"

"Or could stop and set up somewhere else." Henry wouldn't discount the possibility.

"Gonna need spotters again," said Walt, lips pressed together. "Still."

I thought of Fales and his cowardice, trying to pin things to make a Durant sheriff or one of his friends an example of Social Justice. I thought of the Denver D.A., having to save face and take a step back in his career by removing the charges on Henry…

A dozen more miles down the road, it was like a puzzle piece had slipped into place.

"Walt…"

"Hmmm?" He was still driving. I think he felt more comfortable there, with Henry as spotter. Omar, his guys, and Gorski were following at a respectable distance behind in the black truck.

"It's the D.A." I don't know how I knew it, I just did.

"What's the D.A.?"

"The one who set the bugs, who wants Vogel out of there to re-establish himself. He took quite a P.R. hit backing down from Fales' collar."

Walt stared at me. "How…?"

"I don't know, it just _has_ to be. He was humiliated along with Fales, and they both stand to gain if Vogel's gone and we're…neutralized."

"Neutral…don't say that."

Henry threw himself into the fray.

"I believe Vic is onto something. It is the only thing in this entire mess which makes sense."


	9. Chapter 9

**Leaving Durant**

**Chapter 9**

**The 14**

_**A/N: Okay, so after being stuck for a while how this story would progress, it's just been falling off the keys tonight. Enjoy.**_

"So, why Fales and Gorski?" I asked Henry. We were sharing coffee the evening of our trip through the canyon, in his grandmother's overstuffed chairs in the front room. Henry was as amazing in the coffee department as Dorothy, and even got enough coffee in it to cut the cream and sugar I liked best.

We were both watching the heavy snow falling prodigiously just outside the snug little house. I felt very fortunate to be safe and warm and hopefully away from our enemies, just then.

Henry took a deep breath. "This whole situation has smacked of conspiracy, which makes it feel like paranoia, but I would say that Fales convinced Gorski to work for him with promise of a job."

"A job? But Fales doesn't even have one, anymore!"

"He might, if the people who humiliated him prove his case."

I stared at him. "And…how would that happen?" I finally asked.

Henry let the air out. "I could foresee a scenario where I kill you and Walt, flee back to the Red Pony, and kill myself there."

I couldn't speak to that for a moment. "And then?"

"And then, Fales redeemed since I really was a killer, gets his job back and brings on Gorski. Fales redeems the D.A.'s standing, and everybody in Denver is happy."

I made a noise through my noise. "That's a fantasy."

"It might be. Or…it might work. The D.A. has the most to gain from the publicity, denouncing us red-neck hicks and Indians, and re-establishing his authority in Denver."

"So…what do we do to make it _not_ work?"

"Well…" said Henry consideringly, "Walt getting back to work at the station would be one."

"Yes. Maybe Thursday or Friday if he keeps improving…I would like Doc Bloomfield to get a look at him before clearing him for duty, though."

"Yes. Another one would be for me to return to the Pony while you two are still alive. Say tomorrow, and have plenty of witnesses there for the rest of the week."

My eyebrows rose. "Could May give you a lift to Rezdawg so it's not obvious you're leaving or where you're going? When you get there, have Ferg remain on duty there for several shifts?"

"Yes, regarding May, but I do not want to pull your last deputy for babysitting duty."

"He would be on perfect alibi duty, and also be armed in the event of an attack."

Henry sighed. "Unless Walt sees this some other scenario that I have missed, I really do not see any other way for them to make this work."

"Me neither," I agreed, but reluctantly, "And I'm really hoping Walt is well enough to start putting his two cents in on this. He will likely have ideas_. Notions._"

"Agreed. He should be brought in as soon as possible. It is Tuesday, and the roads are still near impassable for May to drive me to Rezdawg. I will return to the Pony tomorrow. I hope Walt will be back to the station by Friday."

"I can take him to work, keep it to a half-day, and take him home afterwards so he can recuperate over the weekend. By that time, Cady should be back in town."

"If you mind me asking, do not tell me, but…do you have a place to stay? I…believe I know Walt's mind, but if you end up needing one, I want you to know that you can stay here. I know you had…planned to leave Durant."

My eyes strayed to the room where Walt slept. He had slipped from exhaustion into sleep after the grueling trip from Lander. I had pressed meds on him, and some hot cocoa, but he had been asleep shortly after.

"I still may. Walt and I have not yet had that conversation."

"His intent to kill Jacob?"

I felt my face twist, the way it always did thinking about the whole scenario. "Or, more to the point, that his heart is still overflowing with Martha to the exclusion of the rest of us."

"That is what you should remember from it—that it excluded Cady, Ruby and me, and you cannot deny that he loves us as well."

I didn't answer. I just felt my face stiffen. I was so tired of hurting over that. "He asked me to stay. He did not define _stay._ I thought he meant…" _Fuck_. I couldn't even say it.

"I suspect he meant what you thought he meant. Let him get his head on straight before you approach him about it. I know when I went up to Billings with him, he was thoroughly confused about Jacob, Barlow _and_ Martha."

My head came up. "About _Martha_?"

"He asked me not to mention to Martha that he planned to kill Jacob."

That just floored me. "So, he really _wasn't_ lucid."

"No," said Henry, "he was not, but it is important to keep the electorate from knowing that. Although he is an elected official, even they are allowed to have sick days, counseling, and the like. I believe he is well on the way to recovery, now, no small thanks to your presence."

"So, Isaac sent him to Billings."

"Just so, to keep Barlow and Jacob safe, at least until his faculties returned."

"And when they did…"

"And when they did, he was frantic to call you. Buying a phone was not a small thing for him."

I exhaled. "I know that," I said, remembering the messages I had not picked up. God, how fucked up was I? I could have forestalled a lot of our current situation by listening to them, or tracking him down in Billings. Some detective I was, letting my snit get the best of me to the detriment of someone I loved.

"Also, Vic, if he tells you he wants something, then it is without doubt something he wants _very much_. I could almost not get him to admit he wanted to win the election the last time around. It was like pulling Walt Teeth."

I put my head down and made a snorty noise.

"Exactly. You need to listen and believe him if he admits anything like that."

I was so tired. I worried over Walt, pursuit from various perps, and events for the next few days. "Okay," was all I said, before I went into the bedroom to check on the patient.

XXX

May pulled her truck up behind the little house the next morning, and Henry joined her for the trip to Rezdawg, which he had left parked at his cousin Lonnie Little Bird's house. It would be a circuitous route indeed for any observers to trace him back to _The 14_.

She came in with the most welcoming smile, and greeted me with a hug. "I have never thanked you for convincing Lily to give my home another try," she said.

I was shocked by that. I thought I had screwed up Lily's dance at the Miss Cheyenne pageant, and that she had every right to be mad at the white interloper over that. When we had found Lily in the van, I had just thought about what a _bad girl_ I'd been as a teen, while rebelling against my law enforcement family, even earning the moniker _The Terror,_ and how Lily had an window of opportunity to reset her life with May. I know Walt and Henry had continued to keep tabs on and encourage both women. They were good men who had stood behind May and her daughter as long as needed.

Walt had improved enough to be sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs Henry and I had occupied the night before. He wore a t-shirt and sweats, with a blanket draped over his shoulders against any chills. He looked haggard, but _better_, and even smiled at May. Not quite a campaign grin, but something better than what he'd been wearing the last few days.

"I'll check in from the Pony," said Henry, as he and May headed out the door. "There's a landline here."

They disappeared out the back door, and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Walt and I were alone. Even at the office, we were rarely alone.

I reached around from where I stood near the chair to feel Walt's forehead. It was staying blessedly cool, but his large hand closed around my wrist, and wordlessly pulled me across his lap. I could feel my eyebrows go up in question, but his other hand rested along my cheek and we faced each other lucid and without distractions for the first time in a long time, maybe ever.

My hands felt awkward. I wanted to touch him, to hold him, but didn't want to send the wrong message, because _The Terror_ was still_ pissed_ at _The Vigilante._

"I have to tell you why," he said. Those were _not_ the first words I expected from his mouth for this conversation.

"Why, what?" I asked. This conversation was already going badly. This was not communication, this was multiple shots missing the bow entirely…

"Why I haven't asked you out, or done anything about courting you after I asked you to stay. I keep thinking you might have left because of that, or that you thought I just meant I wanted you to stay as deputy."

I rolled my eyes. "Noooo…." It had been his desire for vigilante justice and subsequent silence, not his glacial speed at attempting a relationship which had precipitated me leaving. But his wording—"Really, Walt, _courting_?"

"I refuse to use your term for seeing someone."

Yeah, I _had _used the term _sport-fucking_ once instead of dating, just for the shock jock value. I had enjoyed making him squirm. He obviously remembered that, he probably remembered _all_ of my sins…

"Okay, us seeing one another. It's okay, I figured it was because of everything going on…"

"Well. In case you were wondering, it was not just because we had a lot going on, it was because…Martha _died, _Cady _almost died, _and Henry would have been imprisoned and _might have_ died, and we still don't have who is behind it, only that Fales and Gorski are not on that particular list. Those closest to me have suffered over the last three years. I told you I wanted you to stay. I did. I do. I just don't want you to be hurt any more over it. Hurt…like Gorski did by using you and lying to you, or Branch trying to throttle you. I don't want _us_ to end up as a Room 32 for you, because I can't acknowledge us without the possibility that it will put you in danger."

I swallowed. He made good points, but I wasn't from Philly for nothing.

"Fuck, Walt, seems like at least you and Henry are still in Fales' sights, even if Henry got Gorski, and maybe still the guy or guys who hurt those close to you. So, you want to put your life on hold until everybody you need to or ever put away is accounted for in Durant?"

He bowed his head. His forehead touched mine. "I should…" he said, almost in a whisper, "but I am so weak when it's you. I don't know if I can." His hands framed my face.

Okay, this is where I admit I was trembling. Even the touch of his forehead almost set me off. He apparently did not yet realize he was handling C4 thinly disguised by the trappings of flesh and blood.

I took a breath, reined myself in.

"I left because you were prepared to go rogue and kill Nighthorse, then disappeared from radar without giving me a _clue_ what was going on with you. Henry said he had never seen that happen in forty years of knowing you."

He seemed to change gears. "And I hope it will never happen again."

I sucked in my cheeks, bit my lip. Really, I was struggling not to smack him. My body wanted to, but my mind knew he had been through the ringer, too. I was pretty sure that during the night in Lander, he had been having a dream about Chance's compound. Ridges must have only exacerbated all that. I did not think his dreams were happy ones. I was one to talk…couldn't even drive through the canyon where Chance had lived…just white-knuckled it. Henry had not said a word when Walt's hand had closed over mine as we passed the area.

I pressed my lips together. "It wouldn't have happened this time if we had been together. I would have observed the wound. I would have cuffed you to a gurney if necessary to get you seen, treated, given meds to prevent infection…" I inhaled. "Instead, you went all quixotic on me, leaving the Ferg to guard the little woman, and confronted Ridges yourself. _Without backup._ Jeez, Walt, this is like Academy 101. Buddy up, a partner can be the different between life and death. And, Walt…" I couldn't help the tremor in my voice, now, "I thought we _were_ partners…"

He pulled me into his shoulder. "_Quixotic_, huh?" he asked softly, exhaled through his nose. "We were. We are. You'd just been through the thing with Chance, and Branch, and I didn't know if…"

"You didn't know if I'd freeze up or have an episode or something? Was that it?"

He jerked his head sideways. Not exactly confirmation, but not denial, either.

I began to stroke along the fuzzy planes of his face. Neither of were crying, but we were sharing a moment of broken togetherness.

"I can't be Martha and just let you go out and Sheriff, always wondering if I'm going to get The Call."

He swallowed, as though buying time to find words. "You aren't Martha. I don't expect that. I _want_ you to be my back, and eventually, train up a couple of solid deputies to be _your _back."

"It's dangerous out there," I said in a low voice, mimicking the Sergeant on Hill Street Blues who used to end all the staff meetings with that caution. It used to be the Moretti family favorite TV show in the 1980s.

"I should have expected Nighthorse to double-cross me, but with Branch at large, I had to make sure you were safe so I could get him without you or Branch distracting me from it."

"Fuck that. Ferg and I could _both _have come out, and you'd have had insurance—"

"Ferg isn't experienced enough—"

I pulled back. "Right now, as a result of all this, Ferg is your _only_ deputy," I said, my hands desperately wanting something to touch, but holding back. "You've had quite a year for attrition."

"Don't leave, Vic. Don't leave Durant, don't leave the department. Don't leave _me._"

It was a plea, and he was lucid. I remembered what Henry said about Walt having trouble admitting what he really wanted, because he didn't want to cause problems for anyone.

My eyes narrowed.

"Are you saying you want me to stay for _you?"_

"Yep."

"No more Jacob Hunts? There's…at least a little room for me in there, besides where Martha resides?"

"Yep."

Well, what could I possibly say to _that, _after Henry's admonition_?_

"Fuck me. Then—I will."

I think I may have meant that more literally than it probably came out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Leaving Durant**

**Chapter 10**

**(Placeholder)**

_**Warning: Couple of Books Spoilers Below…**_

_**A/N Well…life is stranger than fiction they say, and certainly in my case. I have been unsuccessfully trying to write the last few weeks. I meant to post this chapter long ago, and it still not done, so this is a placeholder…**_

_**A few weeks ago I was not feeling well, was told I had a UTI and was not contagious. Hmmm…fast forward to 10 days ago, still feeling bad and a Physician's Assistant said it was a virus, would go away in few days regarding a respiratory thing I had going. Today, feeling worse, I FINALLY see my own doctor…this ACA thing in America is for the birds, they want you to see glorified nurses instead of doctors, now…well, today, the doctor who has treated me for 15 years almost immediately does a chest X-Ray and BOOM! Double pneumonia. Hmmph. So, was I doing sympathetic character research for the mentally impaired Walt in my story? Noooooo….not intentionally, anyway. However, I *can* report that my complaints of 'fuzzy brain' and having to make lists, etc the last couple of weeks are *indeed* symptoms and lucidity can be compromised. (Doing research in the doctor's office is more fun than the waiting, hah.)**_

_**So, apart from diagnosis and treatment, my doctor said my scenario is perfectly reasonable, although I didn't go into detail about the character, that someone could lose their mental capacities if untreated, especially a person who did not *seem* sick because they were so physically strong and able to power through it. Hence, Walt could go after Jacob because it's the one clear thing he's been thinking about forever…I would personally prefer that his clear thoughts were of VIC, but…sigh**_

_**Anyway…antibiotic &amp; steroids later (this placeholder is courtesy of the steroids, which make you feel whizz-bang suddenly better, then don't let you sleep, arrgggghhh) I am once again writing. Take THAT, the thing that was not Writer's Block, it was my body saying, NO WAY…**_

_**I hope to post this Chapter 10 before I leave for Jackson Hole, yes, THAT Jackson, WY on Sunday. I am determined to lick this stupid thing before then. I also have a Missing Scene which may make it out of the machine…fooled around with it, and wasn't happy because it didn't follow the book properly. Another one was getting to close to second-guessing the *next,* as in, not-yet written book, and got dark…like, making me unhappy how dark…so I will think about it, but the next MS will be from DWC after Vic and Henry have rescued Walt (don't want to spoil anything for those who haven't read it, yet.)**_

_**Anyway, this was a totally unexpected experience, and I hope not to repeat it anytime soon. My doctor and I have an understanding, now…I am to EMAIL him immediately if I think I'm really sick and getting the runaround from the front officer/call-screeners. He knows I only come in if I'm really, really not okay, or for the occasional physical. Hmmmph, done now. Back to writing Chapter 10. Or a Missing Scene. Or both. **_

_**Y'all in the USA have a Happy Fourth!**_


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